My eyes narrow through a huff. “I’ve never crashed a wedding, thank you very much. I’m too polite for that.”
“Bullshit.”
“I was twelve. My sister forced me into karate with her because she’s been weirdly obsessed with true crime and self-defense—a fascination she swears started in the womb. She wanted us to be proactive.” I shrug. “Your turn.”
Lex runs his tongue along his top row of teeth, trying to read me. Then he shakes his head, downs the rest of his drink, and stands to pour himself a second.
I watch the planks and cords in his back stretch against his T-shirt as he saunters over to the minibar, leaving a cloud of crisp cologne behind. Wetting my lips, I gaze at him over the rim of my glass, my eyes rolling down his muscled frame, his long legs tapered with dark-blue jeans. His hair is extra messy, in that confident, intentional way. Silk and gloss. A crown of tawny and golden highlights.
The vodka lingers in my chest, swirling in the pit of my stomach.
I should probably stop drinking now.
When Lex settles back down beside me, he’s closer. Only two inches between us, hardly anything at all. His eyes are pale-blue gems as he thinks over a new round of statements. Dusting a thumb over his bottom lip, he looks away and inhales a shaky breath. “I once fell asleep in the girliest bed I’ve ever seen, surrounded by fifty thousand pillows. I’m not a virgin. I’ve piloted a helicopter.”
Process of elimination—easy. I was a witness to the first statement, so that’s out. And obviously, he’s not a virgin.
That leaves three.
“Boring. Clearly, it’s the third one. But hey, there’s still time to live out your pilot dreams. I’m sure you have a horde of helicopters stashed away in one of your twenty-car garages somewhere.”
Lex’s throat rolls as he looks back up. He doesn’t drink.
I force a small laugh. “You’re supposed to take a sip. I got it right.”
All he does is stare at me, his jaw flickering as he clenches his teeth. Then he sends me a slight headshake.
Frowning, I shake my head back at him with added force. “Wait, but…” I take a second to comb through the statements again, but I come to the same conclusion. “Lex, you’re supposed to drink.”
Nothing.
Only that same heavy look.
That’s when an avalanche of awareness rains down on me.
No. Way.
My chest tightens to smothering, my throat going dry. “What are you saying,” I breathe out, more whisper than question. “I’ve seen the tabloids, the headlines. You’re a renowned playboy.”
He rests the newly filled glass on his knee. “So you’ve mentioned, more than once.”
“You’re saying you’re not?”
His knee bobs up and down.
I gape at him, swallow hard. And I say the words that don’t make sense: “You’re a virgin.”
Finally, slowly…
He drinks.
My hand flies to my chest as if to keep my heart from bursting through my rib cage and landing in his lap. “How?” It’s the only question that comes to mind as the living room spins, narrows, and compresses my airways. “I don’t…”
Lex looks like he immediately regrets the confession. He glances away, down at his still-bouncing leg, then discards the glass of whiskey on the coffee table. “I’m gonna hit the shower.”
“Lex…” Maybe it’s not my business, maybe it’s too personal, but he put it out there. He wanted me to know, and now it’s the only thing I want to know. “Don’t—”
“Thanks for the drink.”
