“Your great big apology to my cousin?” Skye asks.
“Make that two things left to settle,” he corrects, not taking his eyes off me. “But I’m talking about our bet. What number did you get?”
I’m pinned by his gaze, nervous and pleased and frustrated that he still has this effect on me. “I haven’t checked yet.”
“I made it in time then.” He leans against the counter, resting his elbow beside my hand.
Why the hell does he always have to smell so good?
“So, what are you waiting for? I have everything planned out. You’ll love it.”
“You’re confident.”
“I’m hopeful.” There’s something extra there, layered under the swagger, peeking out through the blatant interest in his eyes. Like he’s seconds away from kissing me.
I forget what we were talking about.
“I’ll check,” Skye says, but I grab my phone before she can and open the app.
My heart is pounding, and I can’t tell if it’s because I’m worried I’ll lose or if it’s the sudden realization that if I win, I’ll be in charge of planning Benji’s date withsomeone else.Crap, why did I agree to this?
I click the little red notification, and the number surprises me. “It says there are four matches. Is that right?”
Four matches, and none of them are the man I went to sleep thinking about.
Skye checks and confirms. “How many dates did you have in total?”
I don’t remember. “Um …”
“Ten,” Benji states.
Oh. I didn’t realize.
“Really?” I ask.
A muscle tics in his jaw. “Yes.”
Well, that answers it. There’s no chance he got less than four matches last night. I saw the way the redhead was looking at him, along with Carla. Who could blame them? Look at him.
“Might as well tell me the bad news now,” I say. “What are you going to make me do, skydiving? Go-kart in a Luigi costume?”
He tips his head. “Both of those ideas sound amazing, but the only bad news I have is that I lost.”
I couldn’t have heard that right.
“What?”
I don’t believe it.
There’s no way in hell that Benji—tall, handsome, suaveBenji—got less than four matches.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Neither do I,” Rhys says, but before I can ask him why, Marcie raps on the store window, wearing a matching apron and a harried expression. “Shit,” he says. “Luther must have come in. Marcie will kill me if she has to serve him again.”
Skye calls out as he retreats, “I’ll text you later.”
“You’d better.”
