“From what?”

“Life.”

That has to be one of the most honest answers I’ve ever been given, and I’ve never felt more understood before.

With straightforward honesty like that, I’m determined to find out why this fascinating woman needs an escape from life. “I get that.” There’s a pause as her eyes look into mine, seeming to search for answers to questions she hasn’t asked.

The last thing I want to do is pour out my heart under the stench of gas or show that side of myself that I’ve worked fucking hard to bury. I need to get over it. I need to get on with life.

I say, “Did we ever decide what you wanted to discuss? The frank and beans or how we met?”

“Quite frankly, pun intended,” she says, laughing lightly, “I’m not sure.” I have a feeling that’s the only thing she’s ever been uncertain about.

She has me competing with beans, for Christ’s sake. I’ll do it if it gets me closer to her. “How about we find out? You can eat that alone, or we can discuss the virtuous qualities of canned meat and beans versus our meet cute over something we didn’t heat in the microwave. What do you think?”

She takes me in unabashedly, not seeming the least displeased with what she sees, but then says, “I’m good,” and walks away.

Damn.

I played this all wrong . . . I played her all wrong.

But when she starts back to me like she’s on a mission to settle a score, I know I’ve gotten to her. Guess I played this right, after all. She holds the can up and waggles it in the air. “And who said I’ll be eating this alone?” Cocking an eyebrow in challenge, she knows she scored the winning point. The rubber bottoms of her sneakers squeak against the linoleum tiles as she heads to the register.

I cover my wounded heart. Okay, not really, but I fucking hate to lose. Throwing my arms out to the sides, I ask, “So is that a yes?”

Shooting me a glare that buries any chance of redemption I thought I might have, she says, “It’s a no.”

They say you can’t win them all, but my record remained undefeated until now. I look around, glad there are no witnesses.

I grab the soda for Marina, almost forgetting the reason I came in here, and head to the counter.

“Hey, how are ya?” the guy asks my current fixation . . . Is that what she is? Am I fixated or fascinated? I might side with fascination more than fixated, which borders on obsession. Though by how I’ve watched her over the last month in class, obsession might not be far off.

I don’t like the way he’s staring at her with his smarmy smile after a quick rattle of his fingers across the register keys. He dips down on one elbow and smacks his lips together. “I get off in an hour if you wanna . . .” Clicking his tongue, he continues, “You know. I’ll even let you come behind the counter. There’s lots of room down here.”