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“Let me see if I can put my finger on it… Hmmm.” I look at her with arched brows, then glance through the site index as I tap my chin. “I’m going to go with…The INFJ Advocate.”
Her eyes widen, and I grin because I know I’m right. I skim the first few paragraphs of this personality’s description, then fix my eyes on hers and recite what I just read.
“The INFJ is very rare, making up less than one percent of the population. INFJs see helping others as their life’s work, but while people with this personality type can be found involved in rescue and charity work—” I arch a brow— “their real passion is to get to the heart of the issue so people need not be rescued at all.”
I blink back down at the iPad screen, stricken for a moment by a feeling of unease.
“INFJs need time alone to decompress and recharge, and at times may suddenly withdraw. They take great care of others’ feelings, and they expect the favor to be returned.”
I reach out and ruffle her hair, and Gwen snatches the tablet from me. “You’re making fun of me. I can so tell.”
I grin so wide, my cheeks hurt. I pull her close so I can kiss her, and I look into her brown eyes. “I wasn’t, but I am now. Kind of fun. You get all flustered.” I press my forehead against hers, and she tugs at my hair.
“Maybe you just don’t care about my feelings,” she teases.
“What are they?” I narrow my eyes in mock scrutiny. “Are you trying to save me, Gwenna?”
I watch her throat move as she swallows, watch her face and eyes—because despite my joking tone, her answer to the question feels important.
She stares at me without expression for a few long seconds, and then speaks slowly, thoughtfully. “I don’t think you need to be saved. Maybe just fed and occasionally cuddled.” She finds her smile again, and she looks confident and beautiful. “I don’t expect you to confess to that, of course. Not Mr. Secret Agent GI Joe.”
I arch my brows and give her a damning stare—100 percent jest, not that she can likely tell. “Now whose feelings are being stomped on?”
“Fine.” She laughs. “I guess GI Joe does seem a little…tacky and stereotypical when you really think about the name. We’ll shorten that to Mr. Secret Agent.”
“Not so secret.”
“True,” she murmurs, smiling her cute, lopsided smile.
“You haven’t asked me more about it.”
She winks. “All in good time, soldier boy.”
I can’t help wondering if she’s avoiding all talk of my past because she knows I’m so fucked in the head.
That gnaws on me as she gets our plate and slides down off the bed. “You want to make something, or watch me? Or maybe skip the baking and watch TV?” I bring my eyes up to meet hers. “I bet you’re behind on a lot of shows.”
I nod. “I’ve seen some from start to finish and others not at all. Like Game of Thrones. Never seen, but I’ve read the books.”
“We have to fix that, then. If I’m up to reliving the soul-crushing angst.”
I slide down off the bed behind her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as we shuffle toward the kitchen. “You pick the show. I’ll watch anything but the Kardashians.” I give her a sideways smile.
“No reality TV for you?”
I shake my head.
“It’s not my thing so much either. Would you eat cake if I wanted to make one?”
“I guess if I had to,” I sigh, and Gwenna bumps my shoulder. More my arm, really, given our height difference.
“I was thinking you could get another hour of sleep before we really go to sleep. For me, if I’m less tired, I snap out of it quicker.” It meaning nightmares, I assume.
“Been thinking on it?”
“Yeah.” Her cheeks flush as we walk behind the couch. “You can tell me to shut up. You heard the Myers-Briggs. I’m the…advocating type.” She winces, and I chuckle.
“What does this have to do with cake?”
