“They’ve all been…” She pauses, bites her lip and gazes off into the distance for a minute. “Soft,” she says tentatively.

“Soft?” I can’t help but chuckle. “Does that make me hard?” I tease.

“No. Well, I guess. You’re definitely different.” The nervous fidgeting keeping her hands flying around doesn’t distract me. My eyes are locked on hers and I am desperate to hear what she thinks makes me different.

“They were all apprehensive. I think they were as nervous as I was. I usually pick guys who are non-threatening. You’re confident and bold. You push me. Scare me. In a good way. Mostly.” She breaks our eye contact, obviously flustered. I’m starting to understand her. Understand why she needs me.

“Goob troopers.” I try to keep a straight face and fail, earning myself the mother of all eye-rolls.

“Thanks, Jackie! Anyway, I was homeschooled mostly. Boys were kind of a non-factor.”

“Homeschooled? Your family super religious or something?”

“God no.” We both chuckle.

She’s quiet and contemplative for a moment, weighing her words carefully.

“Growing up, I had two options. Be perfect or be invisible. The harder I tried to be perfect, the worse I failed. I’ve got being weird nailed, though,” she quips, trying to keep her voice lighthearted. But the way she fidgets in her seat means she isn’t too comfortable with the confession. “I was always doing something that would embarrass my mother. It was just easier to stay home with tutors.”

Her shoulders are tense and her forehead is furrowed. She’s exposed and vulnerable right now. While my curiosity is piqued, if I push her too hard, she’ll shut down. She’s been brave with her confessions tonight. I decide not to push her this time.

“What! You mean I’m not your first tutor?” My voice is full of mock incredulity. It makes her giggle, and tension releases from both of us.

“Not my first, but maybe my favorite.” My chest swells at the teasing compliment, and I try to ignore it. What kind of pussy gets the feels from being called a girl’s favorite tutor?

Watch yourself, Jacobs.

“Oh my, are you actually flirting with me? Well done, Goose.” I give her a genuine smile.

“Thanks, Maverick.” Her lips curve up into a coy smile. The sight is enough to make me want to drag her to the bathroom and pick up where we left off at the apartment. There’s no way Elizabeth Wilde is going to let her first time be in a dirty diner bathroom. I clear my throat and think about root canals and oil changes.

“Where are you from?” she asks in the sexually charged silence.

“Orland.” My voice is flat. I don’t really want to talk about where I come from or my childhood. We have that in common.

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“I’m not surprised. It’s not worth knowing. Just a shit town a few hours east, full of fuck-ups and drug addicts,” I reply sharply, trying to force down the memories. This is why I don’t date. This getting-to-know-you small talk is bullshit. Talking about my childhood is about as much fun as getting my eyes carved out with a rusty spoon.