Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,12
who you are,” I whisper, meeting his eyes though the darkness.
“No, I don’t think so.” His eyes go soft around the edges and his voice drops so low I can barely make out his next words. “You’ll find out soon enough, anyway.”
“What does that mean?”
He shakes his head.
“Whatever.” I roll my eyes. “You won’t tell me and I clearly suck at guessing. That leaves us only one option.”
His brows lift in amusement. “Does it, now?”
I nod gravely. “Two Truths and a Lie — have you ever played?”
“No, but the title gives away the rules of the game.”
“Right.” I fight a blush. “First one to guess four correctly wins.”
“Wins what, exactly?” he asks suspiciously.
“Um….” The blush I was fighting takes over. “Uh…”
“First rule of negotiations.” He leans closer, his eyes on mine. “Always know your endgame. Otherwise, there’s no point in fighting at all.”
“Oh, god.”
“What?”
“You’re one of those weirdos who plays chess against himself, and lays awake at night thinking through strategy, and has a first edition of The Art of War on his bookshelf, aren’t you?” I shake my head in faux-exasperation. “I have a strict rule against dating men like that. I don’t want to be the Luke to anyone’s Yoda, you know what I’m saying?”
He grins wider. “Was that a Star Wars reference?”
“Absolutely not,” I lie.
“Uh huh.” He totally knows I’m full of shit. “And, anyway, you don’t have to worry.”
“Because you don’t have a first edition Sun Tzu?”
“Because I don’t date. I already told you that.” A funny look flashes in his eyes — I’d say it’s almost embarrassed, but men like him surely don’t get embarrassed. When he continues, his voice has lost a bit of its polished composure. “I’ll have you know, The Art of War is one of the best works ever written.”
“HA!” I snort. “You totally have a copy! You’re so predictable.”
His eyes narrow on mine, but there’s a smile still tugging at his lips. “I’ve never been accused of that before.”
“Oh! I just thought of what I want.”
His eyes drop to my mouth. “Really?”
“From the game.”
“Oh,” he murmurs, eyes still on my lips.
I ignore the squirmy feeling in my stomach and press on. “If I win, you go on a date with me.”
His eyes flash up to mine, suddenly serious. “And if I win?”
“You won’t.”
He stares at me skeptically, his gaze unrelenting, until I give in.
“Oh, fine.” I heave a martyred sigh, as though he’s done something utterly unreasonable, like ask me to stop watching HBO on Sunday nights when Game of Thrones is on. “If you win… I’ll go on a date with you.”
I expect him to laugh at my smooth negotiation tactics, but he doesn’t. When I look up at him, the gloating smile falls off my lips faster than Ned Stark’s head hit the ground — sorry, spoiler alert — because there’s a look on his face I can’t quite describe.
Actually, I can describe it; I’m choosing not to.
Because, if I described it, I’d have to say it looks a lot like pure, unadulterated lust. And that would be bad.
“Um,” I breathe, my eyes locking with his. They’re liquid with heat, burning into mine across the space between us.
“If I win,” he says gruffly, leaning closer. “We go back to my place.”
“Like… for coffee?” I ask hopefully. “Or snacks? I could totally go for a midnight slice of pizza or three.”
He shakes his head. “No, Gemma.”
I gulp.
“One night. No strings.” His words match the intensity of his stare. “That’s all I can offer. That’s all I need.”
“N-need?”
Great. I’m so nervous, I’m stuttering.
He nods slowly, his eyes on my lips. “I don’t do long term. Not ever. But there’s something about you…” His eyes lift to mine. “Just one night. No expectations. No morning afters. No wanting more.”
“Who says I’d even want more?” I struggle to make my voice offended, but my fast-beating heart and sweaty palms are evidence of some very different emotions coursing through my veins at the moment. Like fear. And lust. And maybe a little bit of excitement.
He just looks at me, a seriously confident, seriously hot expression on his face. It’s not even cocky, it’s just a fact — he’s so good, I’d want more.
“You’re awfully full of yourself.” I fold my arms across my chest, staring him down. “And, for your information, I don’t do long-term either, so even if I did agree to your crazy terms, I wouldn’t, like, stalk you or write you long-winded love letters or hold a freaking boom-box over