What Lovers Do(44)

“I’m not on any dating apps. And you were all over this, but now you have an unhealthy fixation with a doctor who doesn’t exist. And as your friend, I feel the need to bring you back to reality.”

When Cersei returns with the ball, I throw it again, and again, three dogs chase it. “And what is my reality?”

He’s going to fail at this because he has no real clue as to my reality. Our friendship and this past weekend have been nearly as “not real” as my doctor scenario.

“In reality, the date standing you up scenario or the dinner by yourself scenario is more likely because you can be a little persnickety.”

I glance back, lifting an eyebrow. “Was that on your word of the day calendar? Have you been dying all day to call someone persnickety?”

“It’s an app, not a calendar.”

Damn him. Really. Damn him! Why does he have to be so entertaining, so funny, so sexy, so everything I can’t have right now?

“Sometimes you really bumfuzzle me.”

“Not a word.” He rolls his eyes. “Nice try.”

“It is.” I tip my chin up, accentuating my confidence. “It means to confuse or fluster.”

“Well …” He smirks. “I believe I fluster you. You blush and bat your eyelashes as your gaze shifts to anywhere and anyone but me. My gaze goes straight to your nipples then because I know you’re turned on.”

“You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

He grins, reaching out to snag the ball that George Clooney managed to fetch before Cersei. “I’m learning quickly. Observation is my strong suit.”

“Conversing … observing … you have so many talents.”

“Fucking …” He winks at me. “Don’t forget how talented I am at that.”

“So Friday …” I clear my throat and change the subject before I do that blushing and gaze shifting for which he has such a keen eye. “You’ll have to text me the time and the restaurant.”

“Is our playdate over?”

“It’s not our playdate; it’s for the dogs. And I really should head back home.”

“Well, maybe we need to schedule a playdate for just the two of us. Do you want to play with me, Sophie?”

I don’t want to laugh or give him any reaction whatsoever. There’s no need to feed his ego, to play his game. But it’s really hard because he’s good at this. Too good. “Golf? Do I want to play golf?”

He shakes his head. “Not the balls I had in mind.”

“I’m not five. I don’t do playdates anymore.”

“Spoilsport,” he says.

He’s bringing out all my scowls today. “Spoiled brat.”

“See … you do know how to engage on a playdate. First, we call each other names, then you shove me. I shove you. Clothes come off. There’s some inappropriate language. Some begging. Likely grunting. You, of course, screaming. And then we go our separate ways and think about our actions.”

“Cersei! We’re leaving! Come, now!”

Those lips I want to kiss slide into a curved line of total satisfaction. “You shouldn’t walk home alone. We’ll walk you.”

“No!” I cringe and hustle to recover with a nervous laugh. “I mean … that’s ridiculous and we both know it. You didn’t walk me home last time.”

“You don’t have a home, do you?”

I shouldn’t reward him with an eye roll, but I can’t stop it. “You got me. I’m a homeless optometrist.”

“Well, let’s look at the facts. You don’t want me to walk you home. You’ve never invited me to your place. And you had me meet you at your office last Friday morning instead of picking you up at your ‘house.’” He air quotes house.

“I have not seen your house. Nor have you invited me,” I say, tipping my chin up.

“Come to my house. Come inside. Come in my bed. Just …” He smirks. “Come.”

“Cersei!” Before I have a chance to yell at her anymore, I realize she’s heeled right next to me. “There you are. Let’s go.” I attach her leash. “It was a one and done.”

“What was?” he asks.

“Our activities over the weekend. Jules and I go to concerts, but we rarely see the same act twice.”

“If you really like a band, and you just can’t get enough of their greatest hits, then you’d go to more than one concert. You’d stalk them. You’d be a groupie. You’d go to all of their shows. And you’d throw your panties on the stage and pray they picked you for a private tour of their bus or jet.”

Wrinkling my nose, I shake my head. “You need to know that a lot of my favorite bands or singers are female.”

“Why are you being so difficult?”

“Why are you being so perverted?”

“You mean persistent.”

“I mean perverted.” I gaze at him over the frames of my glasses.

He presses his finger to the bridge of them and pushes them up my nose. “Kiss me.”

I bat away his hand. “I’m not kissing you.”

“Why? Afraid you won’t be able to stop?”

“I can stop just fine. But I’m not kis—”