Not So Nice Guy(30)

“You’re running out of reasons, Sam…reasons why we shouldn’t do this.”

“Is that supposed to be a riddle or something?”

Our eyes catch and a delicious sense of promise hangs in the air between us. I deflect, poorly.

“Bianca sure seemed happy to be in your arms earlier—think you’ll ask her out?”

He stands back to his full height, putting some distance between us. “You gave me no choice but to dance with her. You were ignoring me. I wanted to further test a theory.”

“And what was that?”

“Does Samantha Abrams have a crush on me?” His brow quirks. “Does she feel envy?”

“And what’d you discover?”

He steps closer so the tips of our shoes touch. His hands catch the lapels of his jacket where it sits on my shoulders and he tugs me toward him.

“My hypothesis was true. This picture confirms it.”

Our chests touch and the warmth of his skin sears me through our clothes. I tilt my head back, back, back until I’m looking right up at him. His thumb reaches up to drag along my bottom lip, and I have to tamp down the urge to draw it into my mouth. I need to know the answer to that age-old question: what does Ian Fletcher taste like?

His head tips forward another inch and I can feel his breath on my lips. It’s minty fresh. We’re going to kiss. This is going to be a moment I tell my grandchildren about. I will etch the details in stone and send it to the Smithsonian.

Instead, he smiles. “Let’s play a game.”

My hands, which I’d completely forgotten about, are gripping his hips. I’ve been pulling him flush against me for the last…oh, several thousand seconds. What little hussies my hands are.

“Fine.”

“The game is truth or kiss.”

I smirk. “Don’t you mean truth or dare? Are you that out of touch?”

“I’m rewriting the rules. I’ll ask you a question and if you don’t want to answer it…well, you can probably guess what you’ll have to do.”

Between the two of us, he’s the one in charge, the one dressed in black. Me? I’m suddenly sweating under this coat made for giants.

“Seems like a game I’d rather not play.”

In a flash, he releases me and steps back. Cold air-conditioning replaces his warmth. It’s like he’s just plunged me in that dunking booth.

“Fine! Okay!” I relent quickly, hoping he’ll immediately step close to me again, but he doesn’t. He leans back against my desk and crosses his feet at the ankles. The sight throws me into a vivid memory of an old fantasy of mine: the two of us having sex against that desk. I have to look away so fantasy and reality don’t start to merge.

“We’ll start small. Are you attracted to me?”

“In a general sense?” I wave my hand in circles. “Are bees attracted to flowers? Yes.”

My pithy response falls flat. I drag my gaze back to him and find he’s crossed his arms. He looks angry, like he wants to punish me, preferably with a ruler. Oh, wait, no—that’s the fantasy talking.

“If you’re not going to answer honestly, let’s not play.”

“Yes…I’m attracted to you.” I say it like I’m admitting to picking my nose.

It’s a terrible habit I really need to work on—being attracted to him, I mean.

He nods, seemingly pleased with the answer. “Even though I’m nothing like the guys you usually date?”

I release a puff of air that sounds like PAH. “Of course you’re nothing like the guys I date.”

“What does that mean?”

“Is this part of the game?”

The very tip of his mouth curves up. “Yes.”

Meaning if I don’t answer, we’ll have to kiss. Am I prepared for that? His lips on mine?

I shiver at the thought and look down at my newly painted nails so I don’t have to watch his reaction while I offer him the truth. “Because you’re out of my league, Fletcher, literally and figuratively. You’ve never dated a woman under six feet. They’ve all been sturdy and tall. Growth-hormone milk drinkers, if you will.”

“Milk drinkers?”

“My mother used to tell me if I didn’t drink my milk, I wouldn’t grow big and strong. I preferred orange juice, and well, now who’s laughing?”

He finds that little insight very amusing indeed. “Adorable.”

I want to wrap my hands around his neck and prove to him just how un-adorable I can be when provoked. Scrappy is an adjective that comes to mind when people try to describe me. I’m quick in a fight. I can sneak under arms and karate chop you in the kidneys—at least I can in my head.

Ian is looking at me like he doesn’t realize my full potential. I sneer.

“You know what? Is this game two-sided? By my estimation, you owe me like fifty honest answers.”

“Or…the alternative, if I don’t want to answer.”

My eyes go wide.

Fifty kisses?! My lips would swell, bruise, fall right off.

His blue eyes promise me if I challenge him, I won’t like the results.

I sigh, kick off my heels, and scooch my butt up onto the small desk behind me. “Fine. Keep asking me questions then.”