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  Bobby dances at the door, ready to greet a new friend, because, let’s face it, all company comes to see Bobby, at least that’s what he thinks. I don’t have the heart to tell him otherwise. Chloe pats my shoulder, bringing me out of my growing nervous breakdown. “He’s walking up to the door. Stop worrying. Enjoy yourself,” she signs, emphasizing each word, then pulls me in for a hug.

  “Get the door, Harper.” She winks with a grin, picks up Bobby, and scampers off toward her bedroom.

  Filling my lungs with a huge gulp of air, I blow it out and give the knob a twist, pulling open the door. Thorin Kline stands on my porch looking like a cross between bad-boy rock star and the boy next door. My jaw drops. What the hell happened to my memory? He wasn’t this ruggedly sexy a week ago. I try to swallow. I’ve got nothing but a dry mouth and a staring problem that I have no intention of correcting.

  My eyes travel down his body and back up again, unapologetically. Can’t help it. The other night, at the club, I was so preoccupied with getting Chloe out before she saw Trey and dumbfounded that the guitarist from the band wanted my number, I didn’t have time to appreciate how gorgeous Thorin Kline was. Not to mention it was kind of dark in the club, so there was that.

  It’s not dark now. I lock eyes with Thorin, and he holds my gaze. His eyes are a crystalline sky blue, like the anhydrous form of cobalt chloride, the same substance used to make invisible ink. And his eyes aren’t giving away any of his secrets. But his body speaks volumes. Uber sexy, cocky, brooding rock star, Thorin Kline, is nervous! And it’s so friggin’ adorable!

  Over the years, I’ve become an expert on reading people—their facial expressions, body language, a tell-all stare. In the span of just a few minutes, I can learn so much about a person.

  Thorin shifts his weight between his feet while his left thumb and forefinger worry over the tail of his red button-down shirt. He lifts his right hand to his cheek, rubbing his palm against the dark stubble. “Hey,” he says, a flirty, cautious smile on his lips. Damn, he’s hot.

  I wave and smile back, relaxing a little, knowing that I’m not the only one who’s anxious about this date. Pulling the door open wider, I wave him inside. Taking my cue, he pushes his hands into his jeans pockets and crosses the threshold. Holding up my index finger, I gesture for him to wait a minute, then turn around and grab my purse and phone off the coffee table.

  Spinning back around, I face him. He’s looking around, admiring my place. I cast a glance over my shoulder, hoping Chloe’s not eavesdropping—I wouldn’t put it past her, when it comes to a guy and me, she’s incorrigible. I don’t see her, which means Thorin won’t see her either, thank God. This whole scenario is awkward enough, I don’t need her prying eyes as well.

  There’s a light tap on my shoulder and I whip my head back to the front. Thorin’s looking right at me, his eyes still revealing nothing. I smile, an attempt to ease the tension that’s creeping back into my chest, and hold my phone up between us. I type out a quick message. We can use our phones to talk. I hit send and look back up.

  Thorin pulls his phone out of his back pocket and glances at the screen, nodding his head. Unlocking his phone, his thumbs peck at the keyboard, then he looks up, regarding me.

  My phone vibrates in my hand. Cool. BTW, you look stunning. Cute piercing. Ready to go?

  I brush my fingers over the side of my nose, touching the dainty hoop. My nose ring was my first rebellious act when I left for college…well, second really, if you count moving out of my parents’ house to go away to school. My parents disapproved of the move, but I felt liberated having done it. I needed to get out on my own, to prove to Mom and Dad that I didn’t need them to shelter me from the world. I love my parents and I know they love me, but the sidewalk of our relationship has always been paved with eggshells. They danced around me, never quite comfortable with having a deaf child, and I tiptoed around them, trying to prove to them in subtle ways I was just as normal as all of their friends’ hearing kids.

  “Thank you,” I sign, mouthing the words. I don’t know why that small compliment means so much to me, but it does. So often, people are consumed with trying to figure out how to act around the “deaf girl” they fail to see me.

  Thorin dips his chin and grabs my hand, winking. With a gentle tug, he’s pulling me out the door and to his car—an old, sexy as hell, black Charger. Thorin Kline is the total package: a talented musician, a killer body, and he drives a fast car. I say a silent prayer to the dating gods, Please let him be a nice guy, too, because I’m liking everything he’s got going on.

  Thorin opens the door for me, and I climb inside, basking in the glorious scent of the aged leather bucket seats. There’s nothing like the smell of an old muscle car—gasoline and exhaust mingled with the faint scent of stale cigarette smoke.

  A shadow darkens the driver’s side, and I look over just in time to see Thorin slipping behind the wheel. He turns the ignition and the engine stutters a few times before it kicks to life, purring like a well-loved kitten. It’s a glorious machine, in pristine condition.

  I have my grandfather to thank for my love of fast cars. Running my hand over the wood paneling on the door, images of when I was a little girl flash through my mind. I spent countless weekends with my grandparents, usually hanging out with Papa in his garage while he tinkered on one of his babies. He loved classic cars, his collection spanning the infancy of the automobile to the late seventies, where the cars were noisy and labeled the owner a badass.

  I’m still clutching my phone, so I type a quick message and send it to Thorin before he backs out of the driveway. This car is amazing! ’69 Charger?

  He looks at his phone lying in his lap and picks it up. Deep lines at the sides of his mouth frame a relaxed smile, the nervous vibes he was giving off a moment ago, gone. Biting his lower lip, he responds. Both of his thumbs slip over the screen, punching out a quick staccato beat.

  His message flashes on my screen. Thanks. It’s a ’71. You like cars?

  I nod enthusiastically and sign my answer, while mouthing the words. “I love them!” Caught up in the moment, I forget that he doesn’t sign, but a look of understanding passes over his face and he replies.

  “Nice. Me, too,” he says. My eyes focus on his mouth. Pressed together, his upper lip has a slight dip in the middle, at the top, and his bottom lip comes to a subtle point at the bottom, making a perfectly shaped heart. It’s a lovely mouth—a kissable mouth, for sure. And I get to stare at that mouth all night. Lucky me!

  He licks his lips and continues speaking. “I…you said you liked…? Ever been to the…Bar?”

  I watch his mouth move, puckering and then thinning out, his tongue caressing the tops and bottoms of his teeth, forming beautiful words, words my brain doesn’t register because it’s a hormonal ball of mush. All I can think about is how it would feel to have his lips puckered against mine. And don’t even get me started on his tongue. My imagination runs wild with all the places I’d like it to caress.

  I’m good at lipreading, and even still, I don’t understand every spoken word. Lipreading isn’t an exact science and it’s certainly isn’t like actual reading. It’s more like taking a fill-in-the-blank test without a word bank. I never fully understand what’s being said. Lots of guesswork on my part. Of all nights for my brain to take a vacation and leave my libido in charge, I just missed half of what he said.

  Pull it together, Harper! If I want to get through this date without looking like an idiot, I need to concentrate on his words, not his lips…or his tongue.

  Shaking my head, I lower my eyebrows and sign, “Sorry, What?” It usually takes me a while to get used to a person’s unique speaking cadence. But misunderstanding Thorin, that’s on my raging hormones, not his speaking; he’s doing just fine.

  He nods and licks his lips before repeating his question. I pay attention this time, hard focus. Keep your mind on the words, Harper. “When you texted me, I remember you said you liked seafood. Ever been to the B
roadway Oyster Bar?”

  Making a fist in my right hand, I shake it, signing, “Yes.” I’m pleasantly surprised at how well Thorin is reading my lips, so I continue signing and mouthing short answers. “Love that restaurant.”

  “Great.” He smiles, shifting into reverse and backing down the driveway.

  Looking out the window, my stomach twists into knots again. Pretzel Harper is back. Now that he’s driving, it’s more difficult to converse, which makes things all the more awkward. When I’m nervous, I get chatty. And right now, there’s no way for me to be chatty with him.

  Drumming my fingers on my purse, a small thread tickles the underside of my palm. I catch it between my thumb and forefinger, rolling it back and forth. Anything to give my twitchy fingers an outlet to move. I steal a glance his way and wonder if he’s feeling as jumpy as me.

  On cue, he turns his head in my direction and catches my eye, giving me a relaxed, easy smile. Nope. Not jumpy at all. He’s the picture of calm coolness—the rock star I saw on stage a couple weeks ago.

  Every now and then it hits me, I’m on a date with a friggin’ rock star. How is this real life?

  Thor winks and puts his eyes back on the road, and the knots in my stomach pull tighter. How is he so at ease when I’m a nervous wreck?

  Reaching for the knob on the dashboard, Thorin slides through different channels. As he climbs higher on the FM frequency, he settles on the local alternative station and turns up the volume. He puts his hand back on the wheel and his fingers start tapping out the beat of the song on the steering wheel. I bite back a smile, an idea blooming in my head.

  If I concentrate hard enough on the thump of the beat and the unique vibrations of the song, I can usually guess what song is playing. I can’t hear the music or the lyrics, but each song has it’s own rhythmic signature that I can feel. It’s really not that hard to guess, radio stations play the same songs over and over again, if anyone pays close enough attention to the beat and the way it feels, they could do the same thing.

  Shifting my focus, I study the way the pulse reverberates through the metal of the car, into the seat and up through my body, the way the mirrors thump in time with the beat, but I’m not getting anything. The music isn’t loud enough. I hope he doesn’t mind, but I lean in and twist the volume control higher.

  Thorin’s eyes leave the road, looking at me in astonishment. “Can you hear that?” he asks.

  I shake my head and answer, “No, but I can feel the beat and guess which song is playing.”

  Thorin watches me with interest, but he doesn’t respond. He has no clue what I just said. Okay, different approach. I pick up my phone, even though I know I shouldn’t text him. I’ll make it short: I can feel the beat.

  In his lap, the screen brightens and he glances down at the message. Nodding his head, he smiles and reaches for the knob, cranking it as high as it goes. Now my seat is thumping.

  I shake my head, cringing. With the radio that loud, it has to unbearable for him, yet he doesn’t seem to mind. Leaning forward, I place my hands on the dashboard, palms down, and concentrate on the vibrations, while I watch the side mirror shake. Thump, thump. THUMP. Thump, thump. THUMP. Thump. THUMP, thump, thump. THUMP…

  The pattern cycles in beats of four, varying slightly in the transition zones, where the heavy thumps even out. I nod. I know this song, it’s on the radio all the time. Picking up my phone, I type: “Radioactive” by Imagine Dragons. Pressing send, I watch Thorin’s phone light up.

  He sees my message and looks at me just long enough to say, “Wow” before putting his eyes back on the road.

  Even in profile, I can see he’s still grinning. Gah! What does that mean? Is he impressed by my parlor trick? Does he think I’m an idiot? Should I name another song? Is he wondering what the hell he’s doing on a date with me? My mind conjures up a dozen thoughts—some horrible, others, not so bad.

  In the middle of thinking terrible thought number four, Thorin glances back in my direction. “How about this one?” he says, tapping the radio dial.

  Sure enough, the song had changed. The beat pulses steady, little variation, very different from “Radioactive.” This isn’t a bass-driven song, making it harder to guess. Biting my lower lip, I touch the dashboard and close my eyes, counting the beats. I don’t want to get this wrong. Two songs come to mind, “Safe and Sound” by Capital Cities, and “Kids” by MGMT. Both have similar rhythms. My gut instinct is to go with “Safe and Sound” because it’s a newer song. I own my answer and send Thorin the text, hoping I’m right.

  With a quick glance at his lap, he reads the message and looks up at me. “That’s fucking amazing, Red!”

  Whew! I got it right! I relax, leaning into the seat, relieved. I’m surprised at how much I want to impress him. That almost never happens when I’m on a date. Most of the time, I’m counting down the minutes until I get to go home, because the guy I’m out with is so freaking uncomfortable around me, it’s a miserable time for the both of us. Not Thorin, though. He doesn’t seem put off by our communication differences in the least, treating me like he would any other person. And don’t even get me started on the nickname. He called me Red the night we meet, at the club. I didn’t think anything of it then, but now, it makes my whole body tingle, like that first sip of a freshly poured soda, fizz tickling my nose.

  We continue the game, Thorin’s smile growing with each correct answer I give, even playfully teasing me when I get one of the songs wrong. The awkwardness dissolves into normal, like we’ve known each other for years. I glance at my phone, noting the time. We’ve been together for thirty-three minutes and it’s already shaping up to be the best date I’ve had in years.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Thor

  I slow the car and turn into the tiny parking lot, my gut sinking. There aren’t many parking options at the oyster bar, it’s the lot or the street. And being downtown on the same night as a Cardinals home game, there’s no way in hell I’m parking on the street. Some drunk fucker plowing his car into the side of my baby is the last thing I need. I’ll risk a door ding in the parking lot.

  Killing the engine, I hop out and stride over to Harper’s side. I offer my hand and she slides her palm against mine, standing. My eyes roam over her body, drinking her in like a bottle of the finest tequila. Despite being short, she has long, shapely legs. Her tight black jeans accentuate each curve, especially her ass. Damn. I shake off the image of running my palm over her backside and blow out a breath, slipping my hand into my pocket—a nonchalant attempt at adjusting my pants around my hard-on. Concentrate on safer territory, Thor.

  My eyes zero in on her chest, not safer territory on most occasions, but tonight, Harper is wearing a leopard-print scarf, effectively hiding any skin. God bless you, Harper. The scarf is cute and will help keep my head in the “get to know you” game instead of the “let’s fuck” game, where I’m so used to spending my time. Getting to know someone is a foreign concept to me.

  Harper flips her long hair over her shoulder, exposing the ivory skin of her neck, and I wonder what it will feel like on my lips. Shit. My attempt at pure thoughts didn’t last long. I’m going to have to settle for getting to know her and wanting to take her to bed, because in all honesty, I want to do both.

  Hand in hand, we walk down the sidewalk. Dixieland jazz blasts from inside the restaurant, pouring out onto street, and I hope we can get a seat away from the stage, my ears are still ringing from having the radio up so loud in the car, not that I have any regrets. I would have turned it up louder if it had been possible, anything to keep her smiling.

  I glance at Harper and squeeze her hand. She turns her head in my direction and gives me an easy, crooked smile. God I love her smile, it speaks louder than any words.

  *

  I shove my empty plate away, and fall against the back of my chair, stuffed. I need a cigarette, but I’ll wait. No way am I leaving Harper sitting alone while I go outside for a smoke; that would be a jackass mov
e.

  Harper picks up the pen sitting beside her plate and writes on the napkin, having given up texting in place of writing. She mentioned earlier that she prefers writing to texting; it’s more personal. I agree. Texting is cold, no intimacy. There’s something sexy about Harper’s loopy, half-cursive, half-printed words on the white napkin.

  Would you like my last oyster? I’m full. She lays the pen down and slides the napkin toward me, pointing to her plate.

  I snatch the pen and napkin from her and scribble my comment beneath her question, No thank you. I flip the napkin around so she can read my answer.

  She makes her hand flat, touching the tips of her fingers to her head and pulling it away while lowering her index, middle, and ring fingers. “Why? Don’t like them?” I read her lips.

  “I’m allergic to shellfish,” I say, wondering what her voice sounds like. She hasn’t spoken all evening. I want to ask her why she doesn’t speak, but for some reason, that question seems too personal for a first date.

  Harper’s eyes go wide, a look of horror on her face. She pulls her plate closer to her body—any closer and her scarf will be swimming in cocktail sauce. I laugh and touch her arm, “It’s fine. I can be around oysters, just can’t eat them.”

  Exaggerating her relief, she wipes imaginary sweat from her forehead and exhales, her shoulders deflating. Grinning, she pushes her plate to the side and picks up the pen, writing, Are you allergic to anything else? Please say you’re not allergic to peanuts!

  I opt for writing my answer this time. Gives me the opportunity to touch her. With the pen in her hand, I deliberately brush my fingers over hers, lingering longer than necessary, sliding my fingertips over her slender knuckles. Clutching the pen, I swivel the napkin around and lean over, pressing the tip to the paper. This close, I can feel her breath on my hand. My eyes flick upward, landing on her parted lips. Her tongue slips between them, licking, and it takes every ounce of my self-control not to lean in a little farther and pull her tongue against my mouth.