The slow stroke of Amber's thumb across his palm had started off by relaxing him, but when she asked more about Marcus, it felt like too much, like it trapped him into answering. He took his hand back in order to pick up his napkin and wipe his mouth. He pushed his plate away and then sat back from the table slightly. "I don't know," he said, hoping that would close the subject, or at least that Amber would see that he didn't want to talk about it. It was true enough: he knew where Marcus was, but he had no idea what he was doing, how he was doing, and he didn't care. Let Dad keep on worrying about Marcus. Foreman was finished.
It took an effort to concentrate on Amber's story, but it did help. The clench of his muscles eased, and he breathed out slowly. Yeah, he could imagine that groups weren't Amber's thing--she'd belong as much as, and no more than, it suited her. And she was proud of it. She'd bestow the gift of her presence on whoever was worthy for the moment, but there was always going to be a higher goal, something she was focused on. Foreman respected the hell out of that. Admired her. He leaned forward, wanting to touch her, not sure how after he'd drawn away a minute before. He didn't know how to say what he wanted without it being too much. Trying to remind himself that they'd met less than a week ago didn't help, it only made the feeling of being trapped come back, leaving him edgy. He wanted to ask her a thousand more questions, about college, about the friends she'd had--there must have been some--about her family; he vaguely remembered that she'd said she had brothers. But anything he asked, Amber would turn around on him, and he wasn't ready for that kind of reciprocity.
He reached for Amber's hand again, holding it open so that he could trace the lines of her palm lightly, watching his fingertips as he did. "I want to take you home with me tonight," he said, finally looking up to meet her eyes, his voice low and husky. It was the only way he could think to let her in without going so far as to answer her questions--not now, anyway. Not yet.
no subject
It took an effort to concentrate on Amber's story, but it did help. The clench of his muscles eased, and he breathed out slowly. Yeah, he could imagine that groups weren't Amber's thing--she'd belong as much as, and no more than, it suited her. And she was proud of it. She'd bestow the gift of her presence on whoever was worthy for the moment, but there was always going to be a higher goal, something she was focused on. Foreman respected the hell out of that. Admired her. He leaned forward, wanting to touch her, not sure how after he'd drawn away a minute before. He didn't know how to say what he wanted without it being too much. Trying to remind himself that they'd met less than a week ago didn't help, it only made the feeling of being trapped come back, leaving him edgy. He wanted to ask her a thousand more questions, about college, about the friends she'd had--there must have been some--about her family; he vaguely remembered that she'd said she had brothers. But anything he asked, Amber would turn around on him, and he wasn't ready for that kind of reciprocity.
He reached for Amber's hand again, holding it open so that he could trace the lines of her palm lightly, watching his fingertips as he did. "I want to take you home with me tonight," he said, finally looking up to meet her eyes, his voice low and husky. It was the only way he could think to let her in without going so far as to answer her questions--not now, anyway. Not yet.