Martin’s face was devoid of expression, but his gaze moved from the tip of my chin to the top of my forehead, then back to my eyes.

He was smiling…sorta. But it resembled a grimace more than a smile. I watched his chest expand with a deep breath before he said, “You don’t even know me, how can you say we don’t fit? That’s not right, Kaitlyn.”

“I—”

“The way you describe me makes me sound like an entitled asshole.”

It was my turn to flinch, lean away. My cheeks heated and stung as though they’d been slapped. I gaped at him and his fierce blue eyes for a long stretch. When he said nothing more, just glared at me, I ducked my head and studied the armrest between us.

“I. I. I…you’re right,” I admitted on a sigh. “I don’t know you, not really. And you’re right that my conclusion we don’t fit is based on my observations and assumptions, which are clearly limited to empirical data sources.”

“I’m not suggesting marriage, Parker. I just…” He paused, though I felt his gaze on me and it felt heavy. “Look at me.”

I braced myself, then lifted my chin to meet his eyes. I expected to find a glower or a scowl. Instead I found his stare to be oddly earnest and searching.

“I’d just like a chance to know you.”

“But why?” I blurted, feeling offended on behalf of everything that was perfect and gifted and beautiful about him. “Why me?”

“Because you’re not intimidated by me.”

“Well, that’s wrong. I am. You scare me.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You kind of do.”

“No, I don’t. That feeling of fear and excitement? That originates in your pants. It isn’t about who I am, it’s about what I look like. I feel that for you too.”

My brain stumbled to grasp his meaning. I lifted an eyebrow, pursed my lips, and considered this statement.

He continued before I was finished considering. “You don’t care about my family.”

“I care about your family as human beings, but I don’t know your family,” I said defensively. “I’m sure if I knew them I’d care about them.”

“Exactly. That’s exactly right, except you wouldn’t. If you knew my family you wouldn’t care about them, because you’re smart.” The cloudy frustration in his eyes began to dissipate and he looked like my answer pleased him.

“That’s true. I am smart. But you are also smart, maybe smarter.”

“And you’re funny.”

“You should know that most of the time the funny is not on purpose.”

“And honest.”

“That’s not always a good thing.”

“And fucking gorgeous—”

I paired a huff with dismissive snort-laugh. But then my expression sobered when I saw Martin was serious.

I swallowed with difficulty then cleared my throat. I couldn’t quite bear the weight and intensity of his stare, so I glanced down again at the arm rest. I’d learned from my mother that when someone gives you a subjective compliment—meaning one that can’t be disproven and is based on opinion—but that you find to be completely false, rather than argue, it’s much better to just say thank you, or I appreciate that and strive to be that compliment.

Fools fight compliments, she’d said, and sometimes other people see you better than you can see yourself.

So I quietly said, “Thank you,” to the armrest.

“You’re welcome.”

I tucked my hair behind my ears and wrestled to find the courage to look at him again. I made it as far as his neck.

“Are you going to give me a chance? Yes or no?” The way he spoke, with such severe directness, was off-putting and strangely alluring. He was entitled, or at least he came across that way, because all of his words were demands.

It also made me want to refuse what he was demanding.

“I’m…going to be open to the possibility of giving you a chance.” When I finished, my eyes flickered to his. I discovered him watching me with a narrowed stare and a little smirk. He was really too freaking good-looking, it was the un-fairest of the unfair.

“Is that the best you can do?” he challenged, leaning forward.

“No. But how you speak to me sometimes makes me want to withhold what you want.”

His eyes flashed and felt at once more penetrating. “How do I speak to you?”

“Like I owe you something, like you’re entitled.”

“That’s just confidence. I’m not going to be self-conscious for any reason, and I’m not going to fake it to make you feel better.”

His response was jarring, irritating, and oddly thrilling, so I volleyed back, “Maybe you should be. Maybe your confidence isn’t based on reality. Maybe you’re not infallible. Maybe you’re not always going to get what you want.”

He watched me as several long moments passed, his gaze growing increasingly inscrutable but somehow hotter. I held his eyes, maybe finding the courage because my feathers were ruffled.

“Okay,” he finally said. “I’ll try not to demand things of you…as often.”

“Good.” I felt strangely disappointed at this news, which made no sense. Did I enjoy it when he spoke to me like I was an underling assigned to obey his every whim? When I reflected on it I realized that maybe I did, because I certainly enjoyed rebelling, defying, and challenging his demands...

We stared at each other. I tried to look at him and his beautiful face with as much objectivity as possible. Who was this person? Who was Martin Sandeke really?

“Tell me something, Martin.”

“What do you want to know, Parker?” Again my question seemed to please him, his features softening and settling into amused—dare I say enthusiastic?—curiosity.

“What do you think about the Samwise Gamgee versus Frodo Baggins debate?”

His smile flattened just a little and for the first time since he sat down, Martin glanced away. He cleared his throat, picked at a spot on his jeans, then returned his gaze to mine. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

This admission made me smile, then laugh belatedly because he looked uncomfortable. Martin Sandeke looked uncomfortable and it was because he was out of his depth, specifically, he was out of his nerd depth, and being out of his depth looked adorable on Martin.

“Well, let me enlighten you,” I said with a bit of show-womanship, waving my hand through the air. I then turned toward him completely. I didn’t try to dim my bright smile. “There is this book, it is called Lord of the Rings and it was written by a linguist w-a-a-a-a-y back in the twentieth century.”

“I’ve heard of the Lord of the Rings.” His lips twitched but his tone was deadpan. I took this as a good sign.

“Ah, good. Have you seen the movies?”

“No.”

“But you’ve heard of the twentieth century? It came right after the nineteenth century.”

He didn’t respond, but his closed-mouth smile grew. His fathomless blue eyes were at half-mast, aquamarine, and glittering like the ocean at sunset.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Anyway, in this book there are different kinds of races—elves, orcs, humans, blah, blah, blah, dwarves—but also, there is this race of beings called hobbits. They are little, short of stature, and usually considered insignificant. They have furry feet and they like to smoke pipes and live quietly. In fact, they live very quietly. But they have several breakfasts daily, so…awesome. Anyway…”

Martin cocked his head to the side as though studying me. I didn’t know if he were actually listening or not, but his eyes were intent and focused, like I was providing him with a super important riddle he would have to solve at some point. It gave me fluttery butterflies in my stomach to have his complete attention like this. It also reminded me how much that area in my pants liked him.

“Anyway,” I repeated, trying to focus. “The whole point of the book is to destroy this ring, because the ring is very, very bad.”

“Why is it bad?”

“You’ll have to read the book, and don’t interrupt me. It’s distracting enough looking at you. You’ve already derailed my brain train with your face several times.”

Martin’s mouth pressed together more firmly and I got the impression he was trying not to laugh.

“Back to the story, ultimately—spoiler alert—the ring is destroyed by two of these hobbits.”

Both of his eyebrows jumped in surprise. “How did they do that? You said they’re insignificant.”

“Like I said, you’ll have to read the book for the specifics, but the crux of my question has to do with the two hobbits who destroy the ring—Frodo and Samwise. Frodo bears the ring. He carries it. But,” I lifted a finger in the air for emphasis, “Samwise is his trusted servant, and he is very trustworthy. He supports Frodo, he keeps Frodo from giving up. He even bears the ring for a short time. Plus there’s this bit at the very end that…well, you’ll have to read the book. So, the question is—who deserves the credit for the destruction of the ring? Who was stronger? Frodo or Samwise? The master or the servant?”