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She drops a chicken wing onto her plate in protest. “Sylvia specifically asked me if I’d ever had the pleasure of kissing your lips, and I truthfully said no.”
When she mentions my lips, my eyes flicker to hers, ever so briefly, and when my gaze returns to her ice-blue eyes, she’s smirking.
“So, what are you suggesting we do?” I say. “If you’re suggesting we should say we got together after your interview on Sylvia, just so you can avoid looking like a liar, then no dice. I’d need way more time than that to fall in love with you. More than a month, actually. But I’m willing to say that to avoid the mess of our relationship overlapping with the tour.”
“You’d need longer than a whole month to know you want me?”
“No. I’d need half a second to know that. I’m saying I’d need longer than a month to know I loved you. To want to live with you. Or, so I’d imagine. I’ve never fallen in love or lived with anyone before. But I think a month would be lightning quick for me to do either.”
“Well, it’s not like we met only a month ago. We’ve known each other for a long time now. Oh! I know! We could say you were secretly in love with me throughout the tour. That’d give you plenty of time to develop feelings of love, wouldn’t it?”
For some reason, my breathing has become a bit difficult. “I’m not gonna be the simp who sat around, pining for you, while you fucked Malik, and then Charlie, during the tour. Fuck that.”
She pauses. Opens and closes her mouth. And finally says, “It was only an idea.”
“Yeah, and a terrible one. I’m not gonna be your puppy, Laila, even in a fake romance. You’re gonna have to suck it up and admit you lied on Sylvia. We’ll say we wanted our privacy and people will understand.”
“Fine. But in exchange for me being outed as a liar, then you have to admit you were the one who caught feelings first. You’re the one who pursued me.”
“Well, of course, I pursued you. Look at you.”
She giggles. “How did you finally make your move?”
I pause to consider. “When the tour was over, I realized I missed seeing your face every day. Your bitchy, evil little face.”
She laughs again.
“So, I called you—from Kendrick’s phone, of course, since you’d blocked my number—and I asked you to come over to my hotel room for pizza and fucking, minus the pizza.”
She snorts. “Wow, how romantic.”
“How would you prefer I did it?”
She twists her sultry lips. “You invited me to your house for dinner. But not pizza. Wine and dine me, dude!”
“I’d have to come to your place if that’s the story. I’ve been living in a hotel since we got back from the tour.”
She gasps. “Why?”
“Because I don’t own a place.”
“You mean you rent?”
“I mean I don’t have a permanent residence. There’s no point. I’m on the road so much.”
“Ugh. I’d hate that. I love my condo.”
I shrug.
“Okay, so you called me and apologized profusely. So, I suggested—”
“Apologized for what?”
“You know for what. Let’s not go down this road again.”
I pause. “Okay, fine. I apologized. But only after you did, for reaming me in front of everyone on the tour.”
“Hell no! You apologized first.”
“That’s not believable,” I say. “Anyone who knows me knows I never apologize first.”
“Well, neither do I.”
We stare at each other for a long moment, at an impasse.
She exhales with frustration. “Why would you call me after the tour to take your shot and not apologize first? That makes no sense. The way it went down is you called me and apologized for being a dick during the tour, and then I apologized, too, and invited you to my condo for pizza. And you said, ‘Pizza? Hell no! Let me cook for you, baby.’ And then, you came to my house and made me an amazing meal that melted my panties and made me invite you to stay the night. And you never left. Which makes perfect sense, since you don’t have anywhere else to live.”
I purse my lips for a beat. “I can live with that.”
“Fabulous. So can I. What did you make me for dinner when you came to my place?”
I flash her a flirtatious smile. “Do you like seafood?”
“I love it.”
“Then I made you my specialty. My grandma’s recipe for cioppino.”
“Oooh. That’s sounds fancy. What’s that?”
“Italian fish stew in a spicy tomato broth. Growing up, my grandma made it for me on my birthday every year. It was a big deal because money was tight and the ingredients are expensive.”
“Is your grandma Italian?”
I nod. “Her parents came here from Sicily.”
Her eyes darken with heat. “I should have known you’ve got Italian blood in you. Italian men are always the most gorgeous—and passionate.”
