I must have withdrawn slightly at his words, so he hugged me closer. “Reading a book is sufficient for now, Penelope. I ask for nothing more, as long as I can remain at your side, gaze into your eyes when you look up, touch your cheek with my palm once in a while, or just sit quietly with your hand in mine. And if that is too much, simply being in your presence will be enough to give me hope for our future.”
Timothy was the most handsome man I’d ever encountered. He was polished, erudite, and poised. He could have chosen any of those strangely dressed women back at the nightclub, the ones with the goddess bodies, all of it on display. I bet he only needed to snap his fingers, and a horde of them would trample each other to get to his side.
Yet, here he was, proclaiming that a night of Jane Austin would be fine with him. How could that be true? Did he think I sat around in my robe and slippers with a made-up face and a hairstyle that only Simone could fashion with such skill? Did he really see ME?
“Yes,” he said. “I can see that you doubt me. Don’t. I have professed my adoration, the depth of my feelings for you, even my love. I . . .”
“Stop. We’ve only had ONE date. You can’t make promises based on ONE single night.”
“Two. We were together at the Sanders’ house. It was there I slipped into the knowing.”
Okay. That was weird. “What is the knowing?” I asked.
We were standing only a few yards away from the lines of people trying to get inside the Bonded Circle Nightclub. The music was still pouring through the closed doors, not as awful as inside, but still obnoxious, as far as I was concerned.
“Let’s leave. Is there somewhere we can walk? Or is it too cold?” I asked.
Timothy brushed a hand over my forehead and felt my cheeks. “You are already getting chilled even with your coat on, but if you will allow me to keep you warm, we can walk a bit. Because of the nightclub. this neighborhood is not too bad, however, will you accept my dealing with any situation that should come up? Would you allow me to protect you?”
“Situation?” I repeated, sounding like I’d left some of my braincells inside the nightclub.
Timothy didn’t respond to my pseudo question, nor to my query about the knowing. Even without being a hundred percent sober and having pierced eardrums, I could probably figure out what he was talking about. The knowing was his way of repeating that he was enamored with me for some strange reason. The situation was about walking around San Jose at night when drug dealers, the homeless, thieves, and drunks might share the street with us.