“Can’t we just let the kids play while we hash this out?”
Light flickers in his eyes, and he looks like he’s trying not to laugh at me. “Why? Are you scared I’ll win?”
Did you catch that? I did too, and although my more rational side tells me he’s baiting me, the other side—the one that can’t seem to back away from a challenge no matter how small the chances of me winning actually are—fist pumps the air like Judd Nelson at the end ofThe Breakfast Cluband dives in headfirst.
Grabbing the Sharpies out of his hand, I hold them in my hand like a machete. “I’m scared you’ll embarrass yourself and cry like a little girl when you lose, yes.”
“Okay.” He draws out the word and stares at me like he’s trying hard to figure out my angle. “I like a confident woman. Care to make it interesting?”
“How so?”
“If your boat wins, I’ll get you an interview with my friend, Vince, before the gala.”
Hello.There’s an offer I can’t refuse. “Keep talking, I’m liking these terms.” Then the alternative hits me. “Wait, on the off chance that a miracle happens, what if your boat wins?”
His head turns and his heated brown eyes find mine, ensnaring them in a hold I can’t look away from. “You have to kiss me. And, what’s more? You have to like it.”
Somehow the thought of kissing him overrides my good sense and my head bobs up and down like it’s not even attached to my neck before I know what I’m doing.
“Then it’s settled,” he says, sealing the deal with a final nod and turning his attention toward the project at hand.
I shouldn’t be amazed that Niall is somewhat crafty. He’s a photographer, and artistry certainly runs in his blood. However, as we all sit on the blanket, I watch his patience with Sophie and Preston with awe. It’s mesmerizing to watch and a strange warmth fills my chest as he shows them step by step how to expertly fold the newspaper to form the boat to ensure that it floats. Suddenly, he’s not just the outrageously hot guy who has offered me the deal of a lifetime. He’s a real person. He’s a father. He’s someone I could see a woman easily falling for. Even me.
As the kids squeal and run off holding their new boats like their most prized possession, Niall turns to me. “Let’s get some basics out of the way.”
“Like my middle name and where I’m from?”
“Well, I was thinking more like whether you sleep in lingerie or nothing at all.”
I stare at him in shock, my thinly held self-control starting to crack. “Are you always this forward?”
“Yes,” he says, smirking that damn adorable smile that makes me forget why the hell I’m mad in the first place. “But mainly, I like making your cheeks turn that beautiful shade of red.”
I lower my chin to my chest. “I don’t blush.”
“Oh, you blush, all right.” Amusement creases the corners of his eyes. “Do I make you nervous, Laken?”
“Paige.”
“Excuse me?”
“My middle name is Paige, and I grew up in a little town right outside of Boca Raton, Florida.” Standing, I dust off the grass stuck to the back of my legs and nod toward the water. “And if the inquisition about my nocturnal habits is over, we’ve got two antsy kids ready to kick your ass as much as I am. Is the fleet ready to set sail?”
Gathering the makeshift boats in his arms, he calls out after me. “What about the sleepwear?”
Pausing halfway to the water, I toss a grin over my shoulder. “Full flannel pajamas.”
Which is a lie. I sleep in the nude. A small part of me hopes maybe someday soon, he’ll find out for himself.
Forty-five minutes and twelve paper boats later, all three of Niall’s paper armada sail flawlessly across the water while one of mine is resting in a watery grave at the bottom of the pond, another is floating upside down, and the third is hung up on some overgrown grass by the bank. As much as I’ve lusted over the man the past twenty-four hours, and almost set fire to my own vagina trying to masturbate him off my mind, the idea of conceding to him isn’t high on my priority list.
Standing by the water’s edge, I contemplate taking a swim to save my last hope at winning this bet, when I feel warm breath on my neck.
“Looks like you’ve got yourself in quite the situation here.”
“Nope,” I say, popping the P at the end and refusing to glance back at him as I poke my boat with a stick in hopes of dislodging it. “All under control.”
Tightening my grip around the useless stick, the only control I manage to have is pushing the shit further into the brush, causing it to tip over and take on enough water to sink. I curse and stomp my foot, spraying water and dousing the top of the newspaper. As the tip of my boat shoots up, it bobs haphazardly for a moment, then begins to capsize under the murky water.
