“Tell me your name so I can do it properly.”
“No.”
I blink again. “No?”
“You haven’t earned it yet.”
Oh, Ilikethis one.
“Fine then,” I say, turning on the best Bridgerton charm I can muster. Lowering my voice. “Forgive me, Ms. Mysterious,”
She snickers. “Makes me sound like a super hero but, I’ll allow it.”
I continue with my apology. “Be that as it may, I’d do anything to be back in your good graces.”
There’s a pause. A breath. Then barely audible, she says, “Oh shit.”
I grin.
Game on.
“Have I earned your name yet?”
She laughs.
“What’s funny?”
“I just shook my head like you could see me,” she confesses.
I lean forward, elbows my on knees, smiling into the void. “Which way were you shaking? Up and down or side to side?”
“Well, I haven’t told you my name yet, have I? What do you think that means?”
She likes control. She tests. She pushes to see if you’ll chase.
I may not marry her, but I’ll play this game with her all night long.
She doesn’t wait for my reply. Just keeps going. “Where did you grow up?” she asks.
It’s clearly her show now. And as much as I like control, I let her lead.
“You don’t want to guess? Most of the others tried to guess.”
She almost sounds offended. “Do Isoundlike the other women to you?”
“Absolutely not,” I say quickly. “I’m sorry.”
“Good boy.”
My breath catches. This woman.
“I grew up in London. Born in Nigeria.”
“Yoruba or Igbo?”
My eyebrows raise. “How would you know to ask that?”
“My childhood best friend was Nigerian. Her mom was Yoruba, dad was Igbo. So it’s a habit—whenever I meet someone from there, I ask.”
