He snorts. “My name isWin. It’s impossible for me to lose.”
I level a deadpan glare at him, warring against the laughter rising within. “You won’t be so smug when I destroy your ass.”
Leisurely strolling toward me, he hums. “Could be into it.”
He’s absolutely flirting.
Or I’m delusional.
Either way, my cheeks are on fire and I think I’m headed for an early grave because I can’t help leaning into whatever is happening between us right now.
“Ok,Winnie, put your money where your mouth is.”
He jerks to a halt, hands shooting to grip fistfuls of raven hair.
“Fucking kill me,” he groans, “She really used that awful nickname in front of you?”
“Sure did, Pooh-Bear.”
His arms drop. Then he growls like an animal and launches at me. My bottled amusement breaks free and soon we’re laughing and fighting over the controller.
11
Win
One thing I’ve always excelled at is making bad decisions. I’m the king of self-destruction. The cult leader of recklessness. The emperor of terrible ideas. If it’s ill-advised, you better believe I’m signing up.
My specialty is acting on impulse despite the potential disastrous consequences. For example, returning to Remy’s after he begged me to leave him alone.
I’m a bit of a masochist. Sue me.
Shutting off the Rover, I whistle a song I’ve been practicing. It’s a good thing I’m living in the guest house because I sincerely doubt anyone besides V appreciates my insomnia-induced hyper-fixations. One night, I cleaned and tuned my violin until I fell asleep on the floor with my bow in one hand and polishing cloth in the other. Another time, I downloaded the sheet music for over a hundred songs to cover. From 3 a.m. this morning to sunrise, I played until my fingertips bled.
It was worth Mom’s panic attack over bandages in the trash.
The car door slamming shut echoes through the apartment’s parking lot. I’m past the point of bothering with stealth. I've become obsessed with how adorably angry he gets. We used to bicker and tease, but he was rarely aggressive with me.
Angry Remy gets me fuckinghot.
I twirl the keys around my finger, strolling up the stairs—
A muttered curse and a clatter of metal.
On the landing, I lean a hip into the railing and take in the scene.
Remy kneels on his welcome mat, a tiny screwdriver clenched between his teeth as he fiddles with color coated wires sticking out of a plastic rectangular box.
“Now, what do we have here?”
The tool falls from his mouth as he whips toward my voice.
And scowls.
“Go away.”
“Nah.”
Rolling his pretty eyes, he shifts onto his haunches. The band of his Calvin’s peeks out of his gym shorts.
