Dating Games(74)

“I guess there’s a lot about me you don’t know.”

“There certainly is, Mr. Gage. So why don’t you tell me something else most people don’t know about you.”

After a moment of contemplation, he shakes his head. “You first.”

I lift my brows. “Me first?”

“Precisely. You just learned I enjoy cooking. I want to know something interesting about you, Miss Fitzgerald.”

“Okay.” I adjust my posture, squaring my shoulders. “What would you like to know?”

He pinches his chin, studying me. “What would you like to tell me? What are your likes, dislikes, hobbies, stuff like that?”

“I enjoy saying ‘You’re welcome’ loudly when someone doesn’t say thank you.”

Julian bursts out laughing. “I’d love to be around to see that. But how about something serious?”

“That is serious.”

Not saying a word, he narrows his eyes.

“Fine.” I push out a breath. “I speak four languages.”

“Is that right? And here I was trying to impress you with my knowledge of French. Which do you speak?”

“English.”

“Obviously.”

“But I’m also fluent in profanity, sarcasm, and pirate.”

He chuckles, but it quickly fades, his expression contemplative. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Use humor as a mask.”

I blink repeatedly, his words surprising me. “I don’t use humor as a mask,” I insist as I avert my gaze.

“You do. Over the summer, I’ve picked up on that. Anytime we broach a subject you’re uncomfortable with, you make a joke. Granted, I think your sense of humor is incredibly sexy, but I often wonder what you’re hiding, what skeletons lurk in your closet to cause this uncertainty or apprehension.”

“There are no skeletons in my closet.”

“Everyone has skeletons.”

“Do you?”

Julian’s jaw hardens, his stare becoming distant. I’m reminded of the scars on his abdomen, of Camille’s warning that there’s a darkness hanging over him. I’ve seen it firsthand. One minute, things will be great. Better than great. Then something happens to force him to withdraw into himself.

“I do,” he finally says, surprising me. I expected him to avoid the question. “Like I said. Everyone has skeletons.”

“Well, I don’t.” I stab one of my brussels sprouts with my fork, bringing it to my mouth. “I had the perfect life. My parents are still married and live in the same town. Dad was my high school principal and Mom’s an Honors English teacher in the next town.”

“Siblings?”

“An older brother.”

“And what is it he does?”

“He’s an English professor at the University of Nebraska.”

“And you studied English, as well, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“But you’re not a teacher. Excuse me for saying, but it appears as though that’s the normal track, at least in your family.”

“That’s true, but—”

“But you didn’t want to teach, did you?”

I shake my head as a small smile forms on my lips. “That was their dream for me, not mine.”

“Then tell me…” He leans back in the chair, his eyes bemused. “What is Guinevere Fitzgerald’s dream?”

“This conversation feels awfully one-sided.”

“How so?”

“You’re giving me the third degree, yet you don’t have to answer my questions?”

“You can find anything you’d like to know about me on the Internet. The same doesn’t go for you.”

“Not everything…,” I draw out, but he ignores my comment.

“So tell me your dreams, baby doll.”

When he uses such an endearing term, I’m cast under his spell, opening like a flower, urged to spill my secrets, hopes, frustrations, things I never even shared with Trevor, mainly because I didn’t want him to worry about my problems when he had his own worries with college, law school, and his career.

I’ve often told my readers that relationships aren’t fifty-fifty. Sometimes you have to do a little more heavy lifting to help your partner through a difficult time, just like they’ll have to do the same for you. It’s more like a see-saw. There are ups and downs, but it eventually evens out.

It was never really even with Trevor. I was always the one using all my weight to lift him up, sacrificing my dreams so he could achieve his own. I deserve better than that. Now, thanks to Julian, I realize that. This makes me want to share things I’ve kept inside.

“Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve dreamt of being a writer,” I say finally. “That’s all I wanted. I remember sneaking into my parents’ room and stealing one of my mother’s romance novels when I was only twelve or thirteen. I’d hide away in my room and devour it in hours. That’s when I fell in love with…love. And unrealistic expectations.” Laughing at how na?ve I was back then, I look at the ocean waves with an unfocused gaze. When I sense the heat of his stare on me, I return my attention to my dinner, taking a bite of my steak before I continue.