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Ellen opens up the game with a simple question, and I rub my hands together with delight at how hard it is for the lady to answer.
“She’ll drop soon,” I mutter to myself like some kind of Game of Games overlord.
“You’re scaring me,” Trent says softly through a half smirk. Evidently, he thinks speaking at regular volume will anger the beast.
“Don’t be scared,” I say. “You’ll come over to the possessed side of things if you’ll just watch.”
“Why is it so funny?”
“Are you kidding?” I nearly shout. “Ellen is like a torture tyrant. She has absolutely no shame about making these people suffer for a chance at money. She loves it!” I glance at him as he considers it, and a lightbulb goes off. “You should relate to that mentality perfectly.”
He should, actually. That dictatorial mentality of his is exactly what landed me a burner phone and two and a half weeks filled with sending cryptic advice messages.
Which has been incredibly enjoyable, to be honest.
He’s threatened his mystery texter’s life no less than three times and now walks around the job site like he’s an undercover CIA agent.
I’m probably enjoying it a bit too much.
“I should relate to Ellen DeGeneres’s game show?”
“Come on!” I shout, actually taking my attention away from the TV to look at his face. “You torture your employees for their paychecks daily. It’s like you and Ellen are kindred spirits.”
“I do not,” he scoffs.
“Trent, come on. George cried into his yogurt so much yesterday, he ruined it.”
He barks out an incredulous laugh. “No, he didn’t.”
“Yes, he did,” I insist. It’s not actually true, but if it gets Trent to change his behavior, I hardly think George will mind my painting him as an emotional man. Because for all the covert texting I’ve been doing on my burner phone, I’ve seen very little results out of this guy. Maybe, just maybe, he needs a more direct approach.
“I don’t believe you.”
I throw up my hands like it’s all the same to me. “Hey, believe whatever you want. I’m just here to deliver the truth. Like how Sarah went to the dentist on Saturday and found out she has to wear a retainer to prevent more wear and tear now.”
“You really have a penchant for exaggeration, you know that?”
“No exaggeration here, my friend. Even Marcus had to join a meditation group to bring down his cortisol levels, and Tony’s been running through a string of hookers just so he can have a sense of control but without having to commit emotionally. He’s basically dead inside now.”
Trent shakes his head with a smirk curling the corner of his mouth and stares at the TV. I watch him intently, Ellen’s torture chamber all but forgotten.
“And what about you?” he says, eyes never leaving the TV.
I shrug and settle back into the couch, so I don’t have to see his reaction if he has one. But he probably won’t. The Terminator usually doesn’t. “I swung an umbrella at your head.”
“So, you did realize it was me!”
“Shh,” I say, unable to stop the little smile that settles into my cheeks. I had no idea sparring with him away from work could be this fun. “She’s about to drop the winner, and she always enjoys that the most.”
“The best is always last,” he comments easily, and just like that, my head starts to race.
Was that some kind of subtle nudge because I was the last employee on my list? Or is he just spouting sayings like Yoda?
But his eyes, well, they are now one-hundred-percent serious and intently looking into mine.
Why is he looking at me like that? And, more than that, why am I still staring into those gorgeous green eyes of his?
I can’t stop, though. His eyes are like crack for my eyes.
Eye crack…
Wait…don’t I mean eye candy?
Nope. I don’t. Candy is something you can quit. Crack, on the other hand, is something that is incredibly addictive and trouble from the very fucking start.
Trent Tucker and those mesmerizing eyes of his are definitely eye crack.
I don’t miss when his gaze flickers to my lips. Or when he reaches out to brush a lock of hair behind my ear. I don’t miss the way my heart picks up in speed or the way my breath gets tangled up in my lungs. Or the goose bumps rolling up my arms.
I don’t miss any of it.
But when the quiet but intense moment ends and we go back to watching the show, I do miss something—his eyes. On me. And when he leaves shortly after the show ends, I find myself kind of missing something else—him.
What on earth is happening to me?
Trent
It’s been two days since I watched TV in Greer’s apartment.
Forty-eight hours since I nearly kissed her.
It had all been so fucking innocent, just sitting on her couch and watching some outrageous game show, but at one point, it took a turn.
