“Fine, what did you have in mind.”
“For the rest of the game, and the next, anytime we have to collect the pile, we tell the other a personal fact.”
“That’s lame.”
“Well, it was that or remove a piece of clothing.”Of course it was.
I sit back, toying with the wine glass and tilting my head to analyze him. He mirrors me again, sitting back, relaxing, almost like he is letting me see him. I don’t know what it is about this one, but there are…layers. He seems deeper, or at least there is certainly more to him than the fuckboy persona he lets everyone else see. Maybe it’s the loneliness, or maybe it’s the wine, but for some unknown reason…I’m intrigued.
“Okay. Deal.”
“Removing clothes?” He sits up, excited.
“No, you little slut.” He spits his beer in a laugh, and a reluctant smile spreads across my face. “I meant the truths thing. I concede. If I have to pick up a pile, I will tell you a fact.” His assessment turns appreciative, a little bit of his bottom lip drawn between his teeth. I don’t know why I notice that, or that he has quite luscious lips.I remember how sweet they were too.
What the fuck was that?
I clear my throat, looking down at my cards. This is the part of the game where it is almost impossible to cheat. Even if I were to stoop that low for the sake of holding on to my secrets, it wouldn’t be possible now.
Three cards lie in front of me, side by side, facedown. I need to flip one for my turn, but it has to be higher than the card in themiddle. The kicker? The card Caleb just put down was an ace, the highest card. I can only beat it with another ace, a ten, two, or three, which act as magic cards in this game.
“What are you waiting for, Rosebud?”That damn nickname.
I lock my eyes with his, not able to ignore their mesmerizing color. On top of his stupid good looks, height, and panty-melting smile, this fucker had Elizabeth Taylor eyes; so deep blue they were almost purple. Criminal.
Flipping the middle card, I place it on the pile. Neither of us has looked, but he seems to know what it is by the size of the smile that spreads across his face. I glance down. “Fucker,” I mumble, pulling the four back and grabbing the rest of the pile too.
“Let’s have it then.”
“A personal fact?”
“And don’t pussy out on me, Rosebud, make it worth it.”
“It’s funny you men use the word ‘pussy’ for weaknesses. We push a whole-ass watermelon out of that thing and go back for seconds. You little hoes can’t even handle a slight knock to your sack without throwing up and claiming to be the stronger sex.” I roll my eyes and he laughs.
“Touché.”
“A personal fact.” I breathe a heavy breath and lean back against the end of the couch I’m seated against, taking a moment to throw around some facts in my head. Some I’m willing to part with, some I’m not.
“Okay, my legal name.” He sits up straighter, a small smile across his face. “It’s Rosita Estefania Antonia Garcia.”
“What!?” He gasps, the smile even wider. “That is quite the mouthful. Why do you shorten it?”
I smirk, downing the rest of my wine. “That’s two facts. You only get one.” I wink at him and he bites his damn lip again—something he needs to stop doing because the flip of my belly every time he does it is not something that should be happening.
Caleb ducks his chin, returning to his cards; his three face-down cards are still stacked with three face-up cards on top. He grabs the matching jacks and places them down together, with a clear pile he had nothing to beat. I sort through the cards in my hand, reordering them and keeping an eye on the one card he has left on top—a seven.Amateur.
I place down another jack, folding in my lips in a poor attempt to hide my smugness as I giggle and pour myself another glass of wine.
“Nice.” He grumbles, snatching up the pile then downing his beer.
“Another?” I ask, and he nods.
His wandering regard lands outside the window as I get up to grab a beer from the fridge. On the way back I notice the way his head leans back against the couch, the sudden melancholy that seems to surround him as he gets lost in the view. I take a few slow steps toward the couch, analyzing him, the way his hands are in tight fists, almost crushing the cards, and when I get closer, I see the tightness in his jaw.
“You good?” I ask softly, for some reason feeling uneasy at his shift in demeanor. He clears his throat and looks down. “You owe me a fact.” I smile, trying to lighten the mood that changed so suddenly, and the smile that hits his face is empty.
“Okay,” he says, bowing his head. “My mom left me when I was eight.”
