Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,14
Gemma, just in case you forgot…” His voice drops low. “I’m winning.”
I cross my arms over my chest and glare at him. “For now.”
He chuckles again, the sound rich and warm coming from his throat. “All right, here goes. I hate text messages — they’re more annoying than mosquitos. I surf, ski, and rock climb whenever I get the chance, which isn’t often. And I have a golden retriever named Charlie.”
“You so don’t have a golden retriever.” I snort. “And, if you did, his name would definitely not be Charlie.”
“How do you know?”
I look him up and down. “People who’ve traveled to thirty-six — sorry, thirty-seven — countries don’t have pets. And besides, you just don’t seem like a dog person, what with that ginormous stick up your butt, and all.”
He narrows his eyes, at that.
“I bet you’ve never even had a pet goldfish.” I grin when he doesn’t contradict me. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
A grudging nod confirms it.
“Sweet!” I pump one fist into the air, victorious. “Two-two. My turn, again.” I pause. “Okay, I’ve got one.”
He lifts an eyebrow, waiting.
“All my friends are married, with varying degrees of success. I can’t cook anything, and I do mean anything – even, like, scrambled eggs or toast. And once, in college, I dressed up as Princess Leia for Halloween, with the gold bikini, the hair-buns, and everything.”
He takes a moment to think, his eyes dark with curiosity and amusement. “Do you still have the costume?”
“Are you trying to cheat?”
“Gemma, everyone can make scrambled eggs. It’s biologically programmed into you from birth.” He grins when I make a face. “So, back to the costume…”
I cross my arms over my chest. “It’s your turn, again.”
“Fine, fine.” He chuckles. “I hate vanilla – the smell, the taste, everything about it. I drink my coffee black. And the first time I went kite-boarding, I broke two fingers in my right hand.”
“No one hates vanilla. It’s like, the most basic of all flavors.”
“I do,” he says, his smile widening. “Which means, you lose.”
“No way! What’s the lie, then?” My eyes widen. “Don’t tell me – you secretly like loads of hazelnut creamer in your coffee.”
He shakes his head. “Kite-boarding. I broke three fingers, not two.”
“Oh, whatever.” I swallow, nervous for the first time since we started playing. “I’ll catch up. You’ll see.”
“Don’t get too cocky.” His fingers flex against the supple leather of his seat. “I only need one more to win. Unless you’re ready to concede now, and head back to my apartment.”
“No,” I whisper roughly, all triumph stripped from my tone.
“Then you better think of a good lie,” he says, eyes glittering with promise. “Because I have no intention of letting you off easy.”
I begin to rub slow circles into my temple, hoping it might ease some of my sudden stress.
“Okay, um…”
“I’m waiting, Gemma.”
Shit!
Shit, shit, shit.
Why did I ever think this was a good idea?
Probably because I’m unreasonably stubborn when I think I’m right… and, okay, I’m the first to admit that yes, I’m the kind of girl who likes to play with fire — waiting till the last minute to pay my bills, befriending random strangers on the train, driving cross-country in a car with 170,000 miles on the odometer and a failing exhaust system. Most of the time, I like flying through life by the seat of my pants. Going with the flow. Taking things as they come, and all that jazz.
No commitments. No responsibilities. No answering to anyone but me.
It’s more fun, that way.
The only problem is, sometimes I land myself in situations like this, agreeing to crazy bets with sexy strangers who simultaneously tempt and terrify me. Twenty minutes ago, when this was all entirely hypothetical, it was fun. But now, with him looking at me like I’m one of Maria’s fresh-baked cannoli — the kind so good, you devour it in two ravenous bites — it feels a little too real for my liking.
So real, in fact, that I’m starting to worry he’s serious about taking me back to his apartment and having a wild night of emotionless, meaningless sex.
It shouldn’t bother me. It’s been so long since I had a decent orgasm, I should be begging him to have his wicked way with me. But, I can’t. Because, well…
I like him.
Not in a doodle-your-name-in-my-notebook, listen-to-love-songs-that-remind-me-of-you, smile-to-myself-for-no-reason kind of way. I’ve never felt that way about anyone, and I’m not going to start now.
But, I do like him, in a normal, you’re-a-cool-human kind of way.