He lifts a brow. “So you're saying I don’t have the finesse?”
“I’m saying it gives more linebacker than Liberace.”
Turner snorts, and I grin, smug. “Final answer: piano is the lie.”
He pauses. Smiles. “Wrong.”
I blink. “Wait—really?”
“I’ve never been skydiving,” he says with a little shrug. “The golf cart concussion happened at a charity event, and the piano thing was real. My mom made me take lessons until my junior year of high school when I refused to continue. I can play ‘Chopsticks.’”He reaches for the remote and mutes the TV to put all his focus on me. “Your turn.”
Shit. “Give me a second to think about this.”
Wrack my brain for the least traumatic facts I can think to tell him that are fun, and random. Nothing compares to the fact that Mister Baddie McBadderson plays the piano, but…
Here we go.
I count the facts on my fingers, mimicking him. “One—I once dated a guy forsixmonths without realizing he had a girlfriend. Two—I was in a sorority for exactly one semester. Three—I’ve never been in love.”
Turner’s smile falters a little. “Yikes, these are tricky.”
“Good,” I say, folding my arms across my chest. “Let’s see how your lie-detecting skills really hold up.”
He studies me, eyes narrowing like he’s reading a scouting report. “You’re too smart to fall for a cheater, so I’m going to say… the sorority thing is the lie.”
I smirk. “Wrong.”
“Damn.”
“One semester,” I confirm. “I was bribed with a vast amount of cupcakes, liquor, and matching sweatshirts. It didn’t last.”
“So the lie was…?”
I sip my water slowly, dramatically. “I’vedefinitelybeen in love.”
His gaze lingers on me a little longer than it should, and my heart picks up speed.
“Who was the guy who had the girlfriend?” he asks quietly.
I shrug, like it doesn’t still sting. Pride is a fickle beast. “Some idiot from my hometown. High school crush turned college boyfriend. I was young. He was dumb. It was doomed.”
“You deserve better.”
I meet his eyes. “Agree.”
There’s a pause.
“I’d never do that to someone.”
My chest tightens as I nod. “I know.”
His brow tics up. “Youknow?”
“I mean…” I wave my hand vaguely in his direction. “You’re like, ridiculously respectful. You don’t interrupt people when they’re talking. You’re polite. You listen.” I roll my eyes. “You probably return your grocery cart.”
He gives me that slow, warm smile that should be illegal. “I do return my grocery cart.”
“Knew it,” I say, smug. “Most men would leave it rolling into traffic.” I shrug. “Have any tattoos?”
