Black Jack (Advantage Play #5) - Kelsie Rae Page 0,40
about it though. I learned a long time ago to have a thick skin and to not get my hopes up. So, what brings you to my room way past my bedtime?”
“Your room?” I challenge.
“I believe we’ve already had this discussion.”
I grin but drop the subject. “I came because I wanted to thank you.”
“For?”
“For tonight. You hit the doting fiancée role out of the park.”
“Oh.” The surprise on her face seems to pique mine before she adds, “You’re welcome. Don’t mention it. And uh, thank you for agreeing to elope. I know that there could’ve been possible pushback from Embry because of it, but you kept your promise which is saying something. So…thank you.”
“Don’t sound too surprised, Bianca. I’m a man of my word.”
“I may have heard that a time or two from other guys. But other than today, I’ve yet to experience it.”
Confused, I tilt my head to the side and ask, “What do you mean?”
“Men are good at making promises. Not so great at keeping them. So, yeah. I guess I’m surprised that you managed to pull it off. But it’s the good kind of surprise so….”
“Then I guess I’ll take it,” I murmur. “I’m sorry I sprung the date on you without asking your opinion, though. Are you okay with this weekend?”
“And now you’re asking for my opinion on things?” She clutches her chest. “Who are you, and what have you done with your Y chromosome?”
“Give me a little more credit, would ya? I’ve already told you I’m not a bad guy, and I want this to work. But it would make things a lot easier if you gave me a real chance instead of stacking the odds against me.”
She folds her arms. “Who says I’m stacking the odds?”
“Just a hunch.” I set the picture frame back on the vanity before a dying rose sitting next to a small, black velvet box along with a worn stuffed bear that catches my eye. There’s also a small music box, a weathered envelope that looks like it’s been opened at least a hundred times, and a few other odds and ends that make the girl in front of me almost appear sentimental.
“What are all of these things?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.” My mouth ticks up in the corner as I bend at the waist and study the objects a little closer before dragging my forefinger along the stem of the wilted rose.
She kept one.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you had a heart,” I point out.
“Har, har,” she replies, her voice dripping with sarcasm. For some reason, it only spurs me on.
“Tell me about them.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Bullshit,” I repeat before moving past the rose to pick up the small music box. “Did this belong to your mom?”
“No.”
With a dry chuckle, I set it back down and turn to her. “Are you only going to talk to me with one-word answers?”
She smirks. “Probably.”
Another laugh escapes me. “Okay, then.” I reach for the partially-dried rose. “Why’d you keep it?”
With her lips pulled into a thin line, she stays quiet. But her eyes take in every single movement I make as if I’m a snake who could strike at any minute.
Slowly, I drag the flower from her temple to her chin. Her eyelids flutter at the ghost of a touch, making her silence speak louder than a siren. Then I bring the drying bud to my nose and breathe deep. The scent still clings to its petals.
“I think we’re moving in the opposite direction,” I point out. “Now you’re not even giving me one word answers.”
A breath of laughter makes my heart pick up its pace before she takes the rose from my grasp and sets it carefully next to the box I’d left in the hallway outside her door. “Maybe I’ve had enough chitchat for one day.”
“Is that what we’re doing? Chatting?”
“You tell me,” she whispers. Her voice is so quiet and breathy, I’m surprised I heard her at all. Regardless, the sound goes straight to my groin, and it takes everything inside of me to keep my hands at my sides when I’m desperate to drag her toward me and kiss the shit out of her. Still. It doesn’t hurt to ask.
My gaze drops down to her lips. “Can I kiss you again?”
“Is that all you’re here for?”
I pause and drag my gaze back to hers. This feels like a test. I’m just not sure what the right answer is.
“Is that a trick question?” I ask.
She swallows. “I-I don’t