Murder_ A Sinful Secrets Romance - Ella James Page 0,117

hand, until she’s squeezing gently.

Fuck me.

“I’m ‘B’ now?”

She nods, smiling. “I need to shorten Barrett. I’m too lazy to use it all the time.”

“No Bear?” I give her a teasing smile.

Her own smile falters. “I didn’t know if…you’d want that.” She looks worried. I think back to why. Maybe I said something about it? That it reminded me of my time in ACE? Of Breck?

I shrug. “It works.”

She swings my hand, still wrapped in hers. “So I can call you Bear? I have my very own Bear?” I swear, she fucking giggles.

Fuck. I think I get all red like she does sometimes. I can’t help giving her a lopsided smile.

“And on that note…” She reaches behind her and holds a plate out to me, grinning like she knows she’s crazy but she doesn’t care. The plate is stacked with tacos, made in a variety of ways.

“Which ones are yours?” I can’t help laughing at the big, unruly pile.

“The ones that aren’t yours. I like literally any kind of taco. So good choice, by the way.”

We eat right there in her bed, under the twinkle of the lights. Gwen avoids the tacos with the jalapenos. I have a couple different ones, after I ask which she prefers and she answers with a poker face.

The room is filled with crunching, with the sounds of chewing. By the time we’re finished, Gwen’s area is littered with lettuce, tomato, and little bits of taco shell. Mine is spotless.

She gapes at me.

I smirk.

“Aloof and reserved! I just looked up your Myers-Briggs while I was finishing the food. Want me to read it to you?”

I watch her navigate to a web site, and when the letters INTJ appear at the top, I grab the iPad from the bottom, sliding it right out of her hands before she even knows what happened.

She shoves me. “Sneaky ass.”

I turn away from her and skim the description, shooting incredulous looks over my shoulder at her as I start reading them aloud: “‘Values intelligence, knowledge, and competence. Lives in a world of ideas.’” I widen my eyes, shaking my head. “Aloof and reserved. That’s what you think of me?” I ask with mock fury.

She giggles.

“‘INTJs spend a lot of time in their own minds, and may have little interest in other people’s thoughts or feelings.’” I turn toward her. “Little interest? Self-centered? Difficulty expressing themselves?” I arch an eyebrow. “Gwenna, this is very telling. What you think of me…”

She swats my arm. “It doesn’t say self-centered. I don’t think it says that other stuff either.”

I’m only teasing, but her cheeks are red.

I give her a pointed look. “What’s yours, mmm?”

I can’t help it: I enjoy watching her squirm. She doesn’t want to tell me her type, which I find fucking hilarious.

“Let me see if I can put my finger on it… Hmmm.” I look at her with arched brows, then glance through the site index as I tap my chin. “I’m going to go with…The INFJ Advocate.”

Her eyes widen, and I grin because I know I’m right. I skim the first few paragraphs of this personality’s description, then fix my eyes on hers and recite what I just read.

“The INFJ is very rare, making up less than one percent of the population. INFJs see helping others as their life’s work, but while people with this personality type can be found involved in rescue and charity work—” I arch a brow— “their real passion is to get to the heart of the issue so people need not be rescued at all.”

I blink back down at the iPad screen, stricken for a moment by a feeling of unease.

“INFJs need time alone to decompress and recharge, and at times may suddenly withdraw. They take great care of others’ feelings, and they expect the favor to be returned.”

I reach out and ruffle her hair, and Gwen snatches the tablet from me. “You’re making fun of me. I can so tell.”

I grin so wide, my cheeks hurt. I pull her close so I can kiss her, and I look into her brown eyes. “I wasn’t, but I am now. Kind of fun. You get all flustered.” I press my forehead against hers, and she tugs at my hair.

“Maybe you just don’t care about my feelings,” she teases.

“What are they?” I narrow my eyes in mock scrutiny. “Are you trying to save me, Gwenna?”

I watch her throat move as she swallows, watch her face and eyes—because despite my joking tone, her answer to the question feels important.

She