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Adrien’s brows were starting to scrunch. “Why?”
“Stop askingwhy. It’s just… we’re too different, I think. Our lives are too different. There’s no… I don’t know, Adrien. It’s a chemistry thing.”
The scowl dug deeper. “Achemistrything.”
“Yeah.”
He brought his arm up to rest behind me on the couch, and the movement sent another waft of his clean scent my way. “What does that mean?”
My fists were tight against my thumping chest. He was starting to lean a little too close, his narrowing eyes flicking to my nose every time I opened my mouth.
“Uh… I don’t know. It’s hard to explain. Some people have very obvious chemistry. You and I don’t.”
For the next twelve seconds (I counted), the only sounds echoing through the backyard were the soft crackles of the fire pit and the hiss of the cool night breeze weaving through leaves.
“I just mean…” I started, mostly because I was starting to vibrate against the intensity of his stare. “If you look at your dating history, for example, how many of the women you’ve been in serious relationships with were like me? In terms of their lifestyle and jobs and looks and personality and—”
“None.”
My mouth stuttered. “Well then, there you go.”
His dark gaze meandered over my features, slowly, before coming back up to my eyes. “And what about you, Sanchez? I’m really all that different from the men you’ve dated in the past?”
“You know, you say my name a lot more than is necessary. There’s no one else here. I’m not confused about who you’re talking to.”
The right side of his mouth curved up. “You don’t like it?”
“It’s just not necessary.”
“So youdolike it.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“And your new plan is to avoid answering my questions directly, so your nostril won’t give you away?”
“Just until my consultation with the rhinoplasty specialist.”
“Plastic surgery won’t help. Your eyes also have a tell.”
“Well, then I’ll have those traitors sewn up too.”
The corners of his lips continued their subtle climb upward. “Why don’t you answer my question about your dating history first? Is it all just a collection of cinnaman-bunsand blue horny aliens?”
I bit the inside of my lip, punishing it for wanting to expand into a smile. “First of all, it’s cinnamonroll. Those books are not about dudes with man-buns, that’s not what that means. Second of all, it’s nothornyblue aliens, it’s blue alienswithhorns.”
His throat worked as he tried to suppress a chuckle. “That’s my bad.”
“Although, the blue aliens are alsohorny a lot of the time. Strictly for reproductive purposes, obviously. But that’s neither here nor there.”
He hummed. “You know what I think of every time you say blue aliens?”
“Please don’t tell me.”
“Do these blue aliens live in blue houses with blue windows per chance? And do they da ba dee and da ba di?”
My teeth sank harder into my bottom lip. Alba and I had been obsessed with that song when we were kids. I still had my Eiffel 65 poster tucked away in the back of my closet somewhere.
“Have you seen the music video?” he asked, his gaze dipping down to my bite. “It’s a masterpiece.”
