I'm Only Me When I'm With You

2. Lincoln

Jesus fucking Christ.

I can't fucking believe it.

I just met the most gorgeous woman I've ever seen.

And I acted like a fucking idiot.

I hit her with the damn door.

I checked her out.

I held her hand for too damn long.

While checking her out.

Again.

My phone beeped and I nearly gave the poor girl a heart attack.

I let the barista think I was her boyfriend.

I got the same drink as her.

I checked her out a third fucking time.

I probably made her uncomfortable more times than I can count.

And I just flat out asked for her number.

I didn't even think it through before I just blurted it out.

And now I can't even think about her without wanting to sing No Control by One Direction at the top of my fucking lungs.

I go to run my hand through my hair and freeze.

Fucking hell.

My hand smells like her.

Like chestnut and silk and cocoa.

Jesus fucking Christ.

I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head.

"Dude, get your shit together," Ryland comes up next to me, laughing his ass off.

"My shit is very much together, thank you," I snap.

"Yeah, okay," he snorts. "I've known you for almost ten years, and I've never seen you get so worked up about some girl that you probably won't ever talk to again, because you won't ever—"

"Shut up," I mutter.

"You know what though, she was pretty good looking. I mean, did you see those—"

"Shut up," I narrow my eyes at him. "Don't fucking finish that sentence."

"You don't even know the damn girl and you're already being all protective and shit. You can't just do that. You don't know her. You start just randomly doing that and she's going to think you're a sicko. You're a hot guy who looks a hell of a lot older than her. For all she knows, you could be grooming her."

"Don't call her a 'damn girl'," I frown.

"I'm just saying, Linc," he sighs, shaking his head. "Don't scare her away because you're trying to be possessive. Get to know her. Take her on a nice date. Show her that you're not a sicko."

"I should ask her out?" I scrunch my eyebrows.

He opens his mouth to respond, then closes it, narrowing his eyes in concentration.

"Yeah, probably not," he shakes his head. "That would probably still make you seem like a pervert."

"I'm not a pervert," I frown.

"Yes, I knowwww, Lincoln. Because I know you," he drawls it out like he's trying to make a toddler understand. "But she doesn't know that. That's what I'm trying to tell you."

When I'm quiet for a minute, he nods like he's finally gotten me to understand.

"But, I'm not a pervert," I frown, getting his point, but just wanting to piss him off.