Rascal (Rascals Book 1)(4)

“You know what I mean,” I said, hating that I kept blushing around him.

“What I was trying to say,” he continued, “was that we could do the whole small talk thing, getting to know each other, and all that. Or . . .”

“Or?”

“Or we could do something a little more interesting.”

There was a twinkle in his eye. A naughty twinkle.

“Define interesting,” I said, annoyed that the naughty twinkle had given me a naughty tingle between my thighs.

You don’t have time for this, Alex, I told myself.

Time for what? I countered my mental voice. I’m stuck in an ATM with the hottest guy I’ve ever seen. I don’t have time for anything but this. And I don’t even know what this is.

“We could play a game,” Emerson offered. “Like truth or dare.”

“Like truth or dare?”

“OK,” Emerson grinned. “Exactly like truth or dare. Basically, we could play truth or dare.”

I laughed. The whole thing sounded silly and reckless and fun. When was the last time I’d had fun? Work had become my life recently, and though I loved it, I also knew that it required sacrifices.

“OK,” I agreed. “But we need rules.”

Emerson raised an eyebrow.

“I think you’ll like these rules,” I told him.

His look went from skeptical to intrigued.

“No sharing of personal details,” I ticked off on my finger. “I don’t want to talk about our jobs or family members or anything like that. No small talk.”

“I do like that rule,” Emerson quickly agreed.

“You can refuse to answer a question or complete a dare, but if you do, you have to drink.” I pointed at the six-pack of beer that was now laid out on floor with the rest of Emerson’s purchases. “Unless you mind sharing.”

“I don’t mind sharing at all,” he said, that naughty twinkle returning. “Do you mind sharing?”

I reached into my bag, making sure to avoid the tampons and pads, and pulled out the wide variety of snacks I had purchased, including the ice cream.

“Too bad we don’t have a spoon,” I said. It wasn’t hot out yet, but still, who knew how long the ice cream would last outside of a freezer.

“That’s what you think.” Emerson reached into his back pocket. In order to do so, he had to roll onto on hip, and his arm bumped up against mine.

He was wearing a shirt, and I was wearing a blouse and a jacket, but I still felt the spark. Felt it like a jolt of lightning. If Emerson felt the same way, he recovered quickly, pulling what looked a Swiss army knife out of his pocket. He flipped it open, revealing a spoon attachment.

“Were you a boy scout?” I asked as he opened the ice cream.

“Maybe,” he said, giving me a look. “I thought we weren’t going to do small talk?”

“Is that small talk?” I grinned.

“No personal details,” he reminded me with a smile.

I held up my hands as if surrendering. He grinned at me, and used his Swiss army knife-spoon-thing to scoop out a fair sized portion of Chunky Monkey. I completely expected him to eat it, but instead, he offered it to me. I took the spoon and the bite gratefully.

Chivalry wasn’t dead.

Somehow, Chunky Monkey tasted better when I was locked in a dark ATM with a handsome stranger. The sigh of satisfaction that escaped my mouth echoed in the quiet of the small room.

“That good, huh?” Emerson smirked.

I swallowed quickly and passed over the spoon.

“What can I say?” I lifted my chin, hoping to hide what seemed to be an ever-present blush around him. “I like my ice cream.”

“I like your ice cream too,” he murmured, before he had even taken a bite.

Somehow, the vestibule seemed to get smaller and warmer. I didn’t mind one bit.

“I hope that thingamabob of yours has a bottle opener on it,” I noted, finding that the beer bottles didn’t have twist-off tops.

“What kind of boy scout would I be if it didn’t?” he asked, flipping the Swiss army knife around to reveal a bottle opener.

“I guess not the kind that won’t admit he was a boy scout,” I teased.

“This is your game,” he reminded me. “I’m just a mere player.”

“I’m not surprised,” I murmured. Guys who looked like that always were.

Emerson gave me a look, but didn’t respond to my comment. Instead he gave me another once-over, but this time, I could sense that he was looking for answers to questions he hadn’t even asked yet.

“Let me guess,” he said, cocking his head. “You do something important. High-powered.”

“I thought we weren’t sharing personal details,” I said, uncapping a bottle of beer.

I peered at the label—I didn’t recognize it, but it looked like some fancy small-batch brewery. Something a beer snob might drink. That surprised me. From the look of Emerson, I would have taken him for a Budweiser kind of guy. Simple and easy.

“I think we should play another game,” Emerson suggested.

“But truth or dare was your idea,” I reminded him.

“This game will be more fun,” he told me. “Trust me.”