all traces of Ethan. I feel apang, like I’m deleting the actual person, even though I know that’s silly. “Here you go.”
Handing over the iPad, I feel unaccountably nervous and exposed. Right away, I want to snatch back the tablet and make sure I like the photos I used, that my answers to the hundred or so questions are good ones.
As he scans the page, his lips quirk into an amused curve. “Great Kierkegaard quote.”
I groan. “That was Philippe’s way of making me look deep.”
Adam glances up, his keen gray eyes locking onto me for just a second and then darting away. “I think you’re plenty deep,” he says. “So you don’t think there are two ways to be fooled?”
I read upside down: “There are two ways to be fooled. One is to believe what isn’t true; the other is to refuse to believe what is true.”
The quote started out as space filler, nothing more. But now it seems loaded with a meaning that eludes me.
Shrugging, I say, “I imagine there are more than two ways to be fooled, but it’s a great quote.”
He grins at the image of me astride Zenith, pounding through the Santa Barbara surf after one of our last competitions. Seeing my horse, the best I ever had, makes me want to rehabilitate another one, to try to re-create our almost magical connection. I love Persephone, my current rescue, but she won’t let me ride her, and I miss that feeling of being so in sync with another living thing.
I try not to squirm as Adam takes in the rest of my profile, but finally I reach for the iPad. “As you can see, Mr. Blackwood, I’ve already fulfilled my professional obligations and filled in a profile. Let’s do you.”
He arches an eyebrow. “By all means,” he says, grinning. “Let’s do me.”
I feel myself blush. “Well, at least you let me go first,” I say, thrilling a little at the feeling of walking up to some line. Flirting.It feels safe, because I know it can’t go anywhere, and dangerous, because I so wish it could.
“I like to think I’m a gentleman.” Again, his gaze falls on me, giving me a little jolt, and then it moves away to focus on the iPad. He swipes around a bit and then slides the tablet over to me.
His profile’s up, but he hasn’t added photographs. It’s just his name, the default image of a blue boomerang to denote his gender, and a dozen generic details on the page.
“Well, you certainly didn’t apply the famous Adam Blackwood determination to this profile,” I tell him. “Why not?”
“Like I said, I don’t have trouble getting dates.”
“So I’ve read. But still, as president of the company and the creator of the Boomerang brand, I’m surprised that you haven’t filled out a full profile. Not even a photograph.”
He grins. “People know what I look like.”
For some reason, he’s avoiding the issue, like he’s avoided filling in the profile. And like he’s been avoiding a direct look into my eyes. Why?
Something tells me now’s not the time to probe, so I launch into the Boomerang questions. The profile already tells me he was raised in Newport, Rhode Island, to entrepreneurial parents, that he loves to surf, and that he’s got one brother, Grey.
I scan through the questions until I find a juicy one, and then I take the plunge. “How many sexual partners have you had?”
Again, he gives me that amazing half-smile, and his eyes light with amusement. “Today, you mean?”
“Funny. But I think it means lifetime record.”
He shrugs. “Pass.”
“Pass?”
“Yes, let’s go to the next question.”
“Because it’s so many, or because you don’t kiss and tell?”
He grins. “Yes.”
He answers the questions about his favorite book—a tie between Good to Great and all the books in The Belgariad series. Then I learn that he loves The White Stripes, French cuisine, and, of course, surfing. The most exotic place he’s traveled is Tangier, and his favorite time of year is winter.
“I would have thought summer for the
Handing over the iPad, I feel unaccountably nervous and exposed. Right away, I want to snatch back the tablet and make sure I like the photos I used, that my answers to the hundred or so questions are good ones.
As he scans the page, his lips quirk into an amused curve. “Great Kierkegaard quote.”
I groan. “That was Philippe’s way of making me look deep.”
Adam glances up, his keen gray eyes locking onto me for just a second and then darting away. “I think you’re plenty deep,” he says. “So you don’t think there are two ways to be fooled?”
I read upside down: “There are two ways to be fooled. One is to believe what isn’t true; the other is to refuse to believe what is true.”
The quote started out as space filler, nothing more. But now it seems loaded with a meaning that eludes me.
Shrugging, I say, “I imagine there are more than two ways to be fooled, but it’s a great quote.”
He grins at the image of me astride Zenith, pounding through the Santa Barbara surf after one of our last competitions. Seeing my horse, the best I ever had, makes me want to rehabilitate another one, to try to re-create our almost magical connection. I love Persephone, my current rescue, but she won’t let me ride her, and I miss that feeling of being so in sync with another living thing.
I try not to squirm as Adam takes in the rest of my profile, but finally I reach for the iPad. “As you can see, Mr. Blackwood, I’ve already fulfilled my professional obligations and filled in a profile. Let’s do you.”
He arches an eyebrow. “By all means,” he says, grinning. “Let’s do me.”
I feel myself blush. “Well, at least you let me go first,” I say, thrilling a little at the feeling of walking up to some line. Flirting.It feels safe, because I know it can’t go anywhere, and dangerous, because I so wish it could.
“I like to think I’m a gentleman.” Again, his gaze falls on me, giving me a little jolt, and then it moves away to focus on the iPad. He swipes around a bit and then slides the tablet over to me.
His profile’s up, but he hasn’t added photographs. It’s just his name, the default image of a blue boomerang to denote his gender, and a dozen generic details on the page.
“Well, you certainly didn’t apply the famous Adam Blackwood determination to this profile,” I tell him. “Why not?”
“Like I said, I don’t have trouble getting dates.”
“So I’ve read. But still, as president of the company and the creator of the Boomerang brand, I’m surprised that you haven’t filled out a full profile. Not even a photograph.”
He grins. “People know what I look like.”
For some reason, he’s avoiding the issue, like he’s avoided filling in the profile. And like he’s been avoiding a direct look into my eyes. Why?
Something tells me now’s not the time to probe, so I launch into the Boomerang questions. The profile already tells me he was raised in Newport, Rhode Island, to entrepreneurial parents, that he loves to surf, and that he’s got one brother, Grey.
I scan through the questions until I find a juicy one, and then I take the plunge. “How many sexual partners have you had?”
Again, he gives me that amazing half-smile, and his eyes light with amusement. “Today, you mean?”
“Funny. But I think it means lifetime record.”
He shrugs. “Pass.”
“Pass?”
“Yes, let’s go to the next question.”
“Because it’s so many, or because you don’t kiss and tell?”
He grins. “Yes.”
He answers the questions about his favorite book—a tie between Good to Great and all the books in The Belgariad series. Then I learn that he loves The White Stripes, French cuisine, and, of course, surfing. The most exotic place he’s traveled is Tangier, and his favorite time of year is winter.
“I would have thought summer for the
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