He shakes his head before holding out his hand. With a dejected sigh, I drop my wallet into it. I’m now officially on the hook for a hundred bucks. I can’t say I’ve ever paid to have the pleasure of the company of a beautiful woman, but something about this one tells me she’s worth it.
Unsure of how much my cellmate has heard, I pause to evaluate my next steps. How can I make her adore me in the next ninety minutes?
Mom tells me almost every day I have a winning personality. But she’s my mother, and she’s supposed to say that. Not only that, but the firecracker pretending not to stare at my ass has declared she hates hockey players. I’m already starting at a deficit.
Definitely don’t lead with the fact I play hockey.
Considering this woman has—as recently as five minutes ago—sworn off men forever, most notably hockey-playing men, giving her a fake name feels safer than not.
“Loki.” My outstretched hand hovers in the space between us.
She cants her head, not taking her gaze off my fingers for a long moment. “Really?” Her single, perfectly manicured brow arches high.
With a shrug, I try smiling again. Don’t think she fell for it the first ten times, but if it makes her smile back at me, even once, even just a half smile, I bet it’ll be worth it.
Another eye roll, a sigh, and her pale hand slides into mine. “Sigyn.”
It’s my turn to tilt my head. “Huh?”
“You went the Marvel route, didn’t you?”
Heat fills my cheeks. “God of Mischief.” Brushing the back of my neck does little to cool my face.
“Loki’s wife is Sigyn in Norse mythology.” She says it so nonchalantly, just tossing it out like it isn’t the coolest thing someone’s said to me today.
“I guess if he had a wife in the movies it would piss a hell of a lot of women off.”
That makes her…not quite smile but there’s a flicker of amusement that’s hard to miss and I want to try harder. Damn, this woman is a tough nut to crack.
Her expression is locked up tight and surrounded by barbed wire. Her impassive face rivals Mom’s, and that’s saying something. It’s a truth universally acknowledged that mothers have the best poker faces.
This firecracker hugs her stomach like she’s protecting herself. The slight slump of her shoulders and how she holds herself, is she self-conscious? My mom used to contort herself to hide her body.
It’s a guess based on nothing at all other than having lived with Mom my whole damn life and having seen her act the exact same way. Why the hell do beautiful women think they need to be skinny to be beautiful? I dunno. But lots of them certainly seem to.
“I mean, I’d do him.” Her shoulder hitches and that flicker of amusement is back as the corners of her lips curve just a bit.
Him who? I got pulled out of the moment by the counterpoint of her vocal confidence with how she’s defensively curling her arms around her stomach.
I doubt she’s talking about doing me. Though it would kinda be nice.
Sy? Oh, Loki. Right. I mean, who wouldn’t do him? “I’m straight, but even I’d consider doing Tom Hiddleston.”
She nods. “Makes sense. I’m straight, but I’d totally consider doing Scarlett Johansson.”
My heart skips faster. “You like Marvel?”
That impassive look tells me I asked a stupid question. Does she look at herself in the mirror and spend time practicing casual poker face?
“I might,” she allows.
“What else do you like?” I’m leaning toward her now, like I’m being pulled into her orbit, as though one morsel of information about who she is, what she likes, might be the key to unlocking why I’m so drawn to her.
I can’t say it’s love at first sight, but I’m definitely smitten, and her cool, don’t-give-a-fuck vibes only serve to lure me in even more.
“I didn’t say I liked Marvel.” She has me there.
“Didn’t say you didn’t either. Well, I know you like PB&J.”
