A tiny upwards twitch at the edge of his mouth. He looked into my eyes and said, “Green.”
Our drinks came, and we both lapsed into silence. I felt like George Clooney in some heist movie—killing the conversation any time someone walked in on us discussing our deviant plans. I traced my fingers around the condescension of my glass, stroking the wet cold until the waitress left us alone ago. The air had shifted between us, taut and tense. He seemed to read into my silence, because the muscle in his jaw flexed briefly, and I saw the moment he decided to give in. He checked his watch—a real, actual wrist watch with a leather band—and then relented with: “Alright. I have an idea.”
“I’m listening.”
“We’ll play a game. For five minutes, we’ll take turns asking rapid fire questions about each other. Don’t think. Just answer. Go.”
Who was in control—me or him? But I couldn’t deny that I like a challenge, and more than that, I like a game, so his offer hit all my sweet spots.
I cocked my head. Challenge accepted. “Alright. But we’re doing this right. I don’t trust you not to cheat.”
I pulled out my phone, set it face up on the table, and pulled up my clock app. I set the timer to five minutes.
He looked amused. “Wise of you.”
“Starting…now.”I hit the button. The clock started ticking. “Cats or dogs?”
“Cats.” His gaze never disconnected from mine and he immediately sent a question back: “Your comfort meal?”
“Grilled cheese, extra grilled, with a side of more pickles than should be legal. Your perfect day?”
“A book, a beverage, and no one to bother me. What do you hate most in this world?”
“Seeing pretty men happy.”
The edge of his mouth quirked upwards with surprise. “Are you calling me pretty?”
“You’re not my type.”
Which was—technically—true. He wasnotmy type. My type was strong, brutish, and dominant. He was quick-tongued, librarian-chic, and submissive.
If he took offense, he didn’t let it show. If anything, that answer seemed to please him.
I shot his question back at him: “What doyouhate?”
“Cilantro.”
He got a follow up, so I took one too: “Counter, what do youlove?”
“My sister.”
The answer seemed to surprise him the second it came out of his mouth. He blinked, then looked momentarily ashamed, and though he’d let too much of himself slip out.
He cleared his throat. “But that stays between us. I’ll never hear the end of it.”
I held up two fingers. “Scout’s honor. Is she older or younger?”
“Younger.”
“Do you have any other siblings?—?”
“My family is off limits,” he interrupted. His voice was dark suddenly. The mood had shifted, gone cold, like a winter’s breeze.
I pressed my lips together. I swallowed my questions with a sip from my glass.
He shifted in his seat. He veered with: “Why do you enjoy domination?”
There it was. I knew the answer, the truth that thrummed against the back of my teeth. That I’d been dominated by too many bad men and I was sick of it. That Shawn had ruined it for me. That, like Quinn from the romance novel, I’d come to a point in my life when I needed a full, real change.
