With the sounds of his shoes making their exit ringing in her ears, Evan began a mental list. The first thing she was going to do when she slithered back to the apartment building like the scaly 'other woman' she was, was take a shower. A cold one, because non-adulterous type people got hot showers. Not her. And then? She was going to find someone, anyone, to buy her a handle of whiskey. Not that she was one to hit the bottle, but didn't it seem appropriate? Maybe she'd go out and hunt down someone else's husband just for the fun of it, just to really guarantee that her parking spot at the end of the highway to hell was reserved. And then--
Stop getting distracted. Well, if that didn't plunge her right back into the real world like a surprise waterboarding. The suddenness of his statement actually made her jump, and all at once, every set of eyes in the restaurant was on him. Including hers. She couldn't quite pin down what tone he held in his voice, but whatever it was? She didn't like it. Small knots formed at the hinges of her jaw as she set her teeth, drawing a long breath in through her nose. How was she supposed to react? How did he want her to react? "I don't want to hate you." So why did the small thread of anger pulling its way through her veins feel as familiar as the interest? The desire? Her first week in LA, and she was already ass-deep in alligators.
The booth seemed just a mite too small, as did the cafe. The walls were closing in, and that familiar urge to get gone while the gettin' was good (or shitty) grabbed hold of her. Slipping the strap of her messenger bag over her shoulder, the now steely-eyed nymph side-stepped out of the booth, focus on the door rather than the god of Olympus. He'd had his chance to leave first. Now he could wait a minute or two bring up the cheatin' caboose. Regardless? She was gettin' the hell out of dodge.