He takes another swig of his beer, but says nothing more. Fine. If he wants to play stoic and silent, I’ll play chatty and charming.
“Are you going to save me a dance at the wedding?”
“No.”
I scoff. “Come on. That’s your duty as my date.”
“Not your date,” he reminds me. “Your plus one.”
“We need to look up the definition of those terms because I’m fairly certain they’re interchangeable.”
He just shakes his head, like it doesn’t matter, and lets the silence stretch between us.
I’m going crazy. Have you ever tried to flirt with a wall? That’s what this is like. I’d probably get more from the damn wall at this point.
“Why won’t you look at me?” I ask, angling my head.
His jaw ticks, and I don’t know if it's the drinks or the heat, but I can tell he's particularly affected by me today. I’m getting on his nerves, making him uneasy. Great. I love watching him unravel. I can work with this.
“Stop playing with fire, alright? Your brother is four feet away from you.”
“He can’t hear me,” I say quietly, leaning back on my elbows. “And I think you’re allowed to look at me, Boston.”
“I’m not.”
“Well then, this week is going to be nearly impossible. We’ll need to blindfold you.” His lip twitches upward, but that’s all he gives me. “Shame, too. I have so many more pretty bikinis, and I hand-picked my dress for the wedding with you in mind.”
I didn’t, but he doesn’t have to know that.
Even from behind his sunglasses, I know his eyes flash with that lookthat they usually do when I surprise him. The one I’m putty for.
“Will you ever cave?” I ask after a few more seconds of silence.
“Nope.”
I sigh, tilting my head back with disappointment. That’s a shame. When I glance up, he’s looking right at me, the sun is now hitting his face. I catch a glimpse of his eyes from behind his glasses as they glide from my throat to my chest.
The way that look sends a shiver down my spine is notgood.
His eyes snap up to mine, knowing he’s been caught. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t balk—nothing.
I cock a brow and he just looks away. I’m losing my damn mind here.
“Give mesomething, Boston. Flirt back just a little.”
“Nope,” he says again, taking a sip of his beer.
“It’s really starting to crush my ego that you look at me like I’m as interesting as a piece of furniture.”
He lets out a long breath, shaking his head. “That isn’t true.”
“No?”
“Furniture doesn’t talk this much.”
I throw my head back and laugh. His dry humour is a particular drug that I need injected into my bloodstream. It hitsjustright, every time he offers it to me.
A few more minutes of silence stretch between us before he speaks again.
