Cupid Falling

Chapter 8: Pizza and Movie

The movie is about as terrible as expected, but on that level where it's so bad you can enjoy it and have fun. Or, at least, I am. Stomach sated with delicious pepperoni pizza, and my already loose mouth loosened by a couple of glasses of white wine, I'm poking at every plot hole and laughing at every dumb thing the characters do.

"How does a seventy-foot shark keep sneaking up on people?" I shriek as the shark—once again—appears out of nowhere to attack some unsuspecting victim. "It's like two buses taking you by surprise! How do you not see it until it's right there?"

People usually hate watching movies with me, and if I'm honest, I can understand why. I'm incapable of staying quiet. The wine isn't helping but rather exacerbating an already bad habit.

"Maybe he's really quiet?" Eros suggests as he takes a sip of wine.

"Quiet?" I gape at him. "He could be the most silent swimmer; you should still notice if something se-ven-ty-foot-long is approaching you!"

"Maybe they have no peripheral vision?"

"Are you seriously trying to justify this plot point?"

He grins at me, his blue eyes glittering in the semi-darkness of the room. "No, I just enjoy arguing with you."

If we'd still had any pizza left, I might have thrown a slice at him, but it would have been a waste of perfectly good pizza. Unless I'd eat it off his naked body. I clasp my hand over my mouth, only to realize I didn't actually say it out loud and now look like a madwoman.

He gives me a concerned look. "Are you all right?"

I nod. Then remember to move my hand away. "Yeah, fine. Sorry. I'm such a weirdo." When he doesn't dispute my statement, I add, "When drunk." Silence. "Okay, always."

Another moment with no words. Then he leans back and turns his head back to the terribad movie. "Nothing wrong with weird," he says casually, and a swarm of butterflies suddenly tries to escape my stomach. Maybe I had too much pizza, after all.

Am I blushing? I can't tell. My face is already hot from the wine. I hope not. I settle back against the couch as well, but my concentration is no longer fully on the movie. This man makes no sense. Not that I typically understand men, but this one even less than normal. More than an hour into the movie and I still don't know whether this is a date. I was leaning towards 'not a date', but that comment has me questioning myself again.

"Is this a date?" The question leaves my mouth without my brain being involved, and I almost clasp my hands over my mouth again. Why can I never think before I speak?

Eros freezes, like a deer in headlights, before he turns his head back towards me. I kind of wish he hadn't since the way he's looking at me makes those butterflies flutter to life again. Did I get food poisoning? Has Bellagio's let me down for the first time? I can't figure out what he's thinking. Probably that I'm very forward. I'm not, really. My mouth is, though. My brain wants to go dig a hole through the floor and disappear forever.

"Would you like it to be?" he asks, his voice measured, making me feel like an idiot.

Grabbing my glass of wine, I gulp the remaining liquid in a desperate attempt to buy myself time. Yes. Yes, I one-hundred percent would like it to be a date.

"Nah," I say, trying to sound a lot more casual than I feel. "I just wasn't sure. As you might expect from my flailing, I don't go on an awful lot of dates."

"I kn—" He cuts himself short. Was he about to say he knows? Rude! I might not look like a model—like he does—but I could get dates. If I wanted to. I think? I haven't exactly been trying. My sister sets me up now and then, and that's the extent of it. Dating is painful and I'm quite happily single. Most of the time.

I scowl. "You know?"

He almost looks horrified. Turning more fully towards me on the couch, his increased presence is not exactly helping my already inebriated state. His leg pulled up between us rests against mine in a mirrored position, and the heat is distracting. How is he always so warm? Or am I warm? Maybe I shouldn't have had that third glass of wine.

"No, I mean..." He groans and makes a face. Even grimacing, he's handsome. Life is so unfair. His intense blue eyes meet mine. "This could be a date. If you want."

Wait. What? I suspect I'm staring. Wouldn't be surprised if my mouth is agape too. Oh, it is.

"What? Like a pity date? No, thank you." I smile to take the sting out of the words. "I'm happy to be friends, if that's all you were looking for. Don't worry, I get it, being new in the city isn't easy."

"Not a pity date." A look of distaste travels across his face. "That's a terrible term. No, a regular human date."

I don't take him to task about the odd addition of 'human' in that sentence, because facing him on the couch is doing nothing for my equilibrium. "Forget I asked. I shouldn't have. My mouth and brain don't always communicate with each other as much as they probably ought to." I should stop talking now, but of course, I don't. "As I said, I just wasn't sure and wanted to make sure we are on the same page. It wasn't clear when we went skating, either. You're not an easy guy to read. One moment I think you asked me on a date and are flirting with me, the next I feel like I'm just a friend."

He leans in closer, enough that the sexy scent of his cologne tickles my nose, and my breath hitches in my throat.

"Let's see if I can clear it up a little..."