Steve shook his head, his jaw throbbing, the blood pulsing through painfully with every pump of his heart. He opened his mouth and closed it, slowly, but Jules was still in front of him, still hopping foot to foot, her little hands fisted in front of her face, "c'mon, c'mon," she was almost whispering, almost seductive, she wheedled him to take a swing at her.
How did it get this far? All he'd wanted was her digits, she seemed so sweet and she fluttered those big blue eyes at him. He shook his head again, Jules bobbing and weaving like the featherweight she'd be in the ring.
How long had she lived in his head before he took this baby step, just asking for her number? How many times had he laughed at her jokes, stolen glances at her out of the corners of his eyes all gritty from his swingshift, he's done with a hard day's work and all he wants is some suds and Jules' digits, it's taken him all these weeks to get up the guts, his big hands clenching and letting go beside his hips.
What had he said?
What did he always do wrong? Was it is smell, the way he walked, wasn't he saying the same things all the other guys said?
Steve tasted his own blood in his mouth, and knew there was something different about him, his tone, his look, something that put women on their guard around him, but she was the first one who ever popped him.
All Steve knew was, this was love.