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Slouching into my corner of the booth, I sigh. “My position in Denver was temporary. A stepping stone. It wouldn’t have made sense to start something.”
“How long were you there?”
“Couple years.”
He coughs, leaning forward. “And because you weren’t staying, you didn’t date… at all?”
Geez.
“No. I dated. Some. Just…” I knew I’d leave. That I wanted to move on. And it would be easier to go without the entanglement of a relationship.
“Juuust… Enough to scratch the itch?”
Annnd my cheeks are on fire. Who asks that?
Obviously, Ben does. Over-sharer extraordinaire. King of the inappropriate inquiries. Boundary-impaired, TMI-afflicted Ben. He’s so fun.
I take another drink. Brazenly meet his eyes across the table. “Pretty much.”
He blinks again. Or maybe that was a twitch, because even though he’s wearing the same smirk, there’s something about his eyes that suggests he wasn’t expecting that answer. At least not from me.
But he recovers fast enough.
“That mean a boyfriend’s off the table for the Chicago rung on your climb up the corporate ladder too?” At my nod, he goes on. “You don’t get lonely?”
“Who, me?” I quirk my brow. “Never. My badass career keeps me warm at night.”
He snorts, shaking his head.
“Do you?” I ask with a laugh.
“Pfft. Don’t talk crazy.”
“Okay, since you brought dating up,” I start as he coughs an “uh-oh” into his hand. “By all accounts… you’re pretty popular with the ladies. Or I guess, gossip is that you’ve got a thing for ‘puck bunnies’?”
Tongue wetting his full bottom lip, he lifts a brow. “You been keeping tabs on me, Elliot?”
“No.” Maybe. A little. “But it’s pretty hard to miss when my office spends most of their water-cooler time chatting about the vast and varied sex life of the one-girl-forever-virgin I knew back in high school.”
His mouth is screwed up like he’s trying to keep a straight face, but the laughter shines bright in his eyes. “That what’s printed next to my yearbook picture, you think?”
“Nah. It says, ‘Math Nerd.’”
“Bullshit. It says, ‘Hot AF Hockey God, Lord of the Maths, Giver.”
I choke. “Giver?”
“Um, yeah? Three years in a row making sure your ass didn’t just limp through those AP math finals but crushed them.”
This is totally true. I owe him my scholarships. But, “I don’t know. How about, ‘Goofy AF. Big for His Age. Pays His Debts’… since we both know you owed me for dragging your ass past the finish line in English.”
He gasps, slapping a hand over his wounded heart. Next thing, he’s texting his mom— who he swears stays up late —and she’s digging out his old yearbook to send him his picture.
Whoa.
It’s… not what I remembered.
And then, we’re leaning over the table to meet in the middle, howling at his phone. Because not only is Ben rocking some awful hockey hair and a serious acne breakout, but the only caption reads, “Benjamin Boerboom. No quote provided.”
