It was my turn to play.
“Alright,” I pulled my hand away from his and held up a finger. “I’m giving you one chance to guess the real reason I brought you here.”
“Just one?”
“Yes,” I declared, crossing my arms over my chest. “Or do you need more?”
Enzo’s eyes lit up at the prospect of a challenge. He leaned forward and lowered his voice, adopting a quiet tone.
“What do I win if I get it right?”
It was impossible for him to guess. What kind of sane person would figure out what had happened to me? I felt confident. I had money, a mystery to solve, and Enzo’s gaze had drifted to my cleavage at least three times in the last five minutes, which meant I also had the man.
“Anything you want.”
My confidence seemed to encourage him rather than scare him. Without breaking eye contact, he signalled for one of the waitresses to come over. The woman leaned in, and Enzo whispered something in her ear. She returned with a piece of paper and a pen.
“What’s that for?”
“You wouldn’t want me to reveal your secret out loud, would you?” He started writing.
He folded the paper in half and handed it to me.
I unfolded it.
Coming here wasn’t your choice.
“Is this my secret?” I scoffed.
Enzo seemed pleased with himself.
“You tell me. Is it?”
I crumpled the paper into a ball and played with it between my fingers. Enzo wasn’t entirely wrong. The truth was, I had a very limited time to spend the money, and it forced me to act in a specific way. It made me choose options I wouldn’t have otherwise considered, to adapt my plans to fit a lifestyle capable of burning through a lot of cash in no time.
“Not entirely,” I conceded, “but you’re on the right track.”
“So, have I won?”
“No.”
He scooped some whipped cream from the edge of his dessert, now mine, and popped it into his mouth.
“If I’d known you’d be so tough, I wouldn’t have given you my mousse.”
He got a laugh out of me.
“Alright.” I tossed the paper ball back at him. “Tell me why you think it wasn’t my choice. This time, you have to get it right.”
He mirrored my gesture: leaning back, arms crossed over his chest, and pondered his answer. The sharp back of the chair jutted above his head, making it look like a crystal crown on his dark hair. The lights danced on his skin. For a moment, I hoped he’d get it right and thought he might. Then he spoke.
“You lost a bet.”
I shook my head.
“It seems you’re the one who lost.”
He tossed the paper ball back to me, and as I raised my hand to catch it, he took the opportunity to grasp my hand in his.
