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Gigi turned her body to me. “You asked what thirty-five minus twenty-two was.”
“I said that out loud?” I asked, unaware of anything I was doing at the moment. She nodded, her eyebrows raised in question. I knew the question she was asking herself. Is this man insane? And the answer would be, ‘yes’.
“Thirteen year age difference? Jesus, did you know that?” I asked her, still unable to wrap my head around this new information. “Honest to God, I thought you were at least twenty-seven.” I peered at her again, looking for signs that she was younger than I’d originally thought.
“It must have been my crow’s feet and deep frown lines that confused you,” she said dryly as she slowly shook her head.
She sighed louder this time and started typing faster. “Can you go have your breakdown somewhere else? Or at least be quieter? I really need to get some work in,” she said, her fingers moving on the keyboard so quickly I could barely see them. “If you could be a tad less dramatic, that’d be great, too.”
Was she serious? “Do you know how much shit I’m going to catch for dating a twenty-two year old?” I asked her loudly, not understanding why she wasn’t getting this.
Her head turned sharply at me and she spoke in a no-nonsense tone, “Do you know how much shit I’m going catch for being seen making out with you in the hot tub? Again? And then rushing with you to your apartment?”
I clenched my teeth. Damn, she was right. “Maybe I should have thought that through a little more,” I said, my eyes scanning the side of her face as she continued to type.
“Ya think?” She glared over at me, shooting me a fierce gaze. “Grow up, Moreau. There’s worse things in life than dating a twenty-two year old.” Then she went back to the screen.
Damn, Gigi was right. I was acting like an ass. But oh my God, twenty-two? My brother was going to have a hay day with this. Once the guys on the team find out—yeah. I was never living this down.
“Is it almost time in your sexcapades where you feed your victim? I’m getting rather hungry. Do you have food here? If not, I can always just go back to my place,” she said with more than a bit of snark. I couldn’t blame her. The chances of the producers airing clips of us in the hot tub and then running back here were high.
That was why I did it—so they’d buy that our relationship was real. “Sexcapades?” I laughed and tried to see what she was looking at on the screen. “Those are some pretty big words, G,” I said, attempting to sound out a few of them. “What class is this for?”
“It’s an exam about medications,” she said as she scrolled down the page.
“How can you read so fast? I barely get a few sentences done and you’re already onto the next page,” I stated, finding it highly unusual someone could read that quickly. I’m no genius but I didn’t exactly do poorly at school. And I was by no means in the slow-reader group.
She shrugged it off like it was nothing. “I’ve always been able to read fast. It comes naturally, I guess. I taught myself how to read before kindergarten. One day it all just—clicked.”
“That’s crazy. I wish I could read like that.” Neither of us said anything for a while. I watched her type on the keyboard and highlight certain things as she made notes. She was completely in the zone and I felt like I was in the presence of greatness.
When she looked over at me, I was startled for being caught staring. “Food, Moreau. Go forage something up, please?”
“Oh, right,” I said, then got up quickly to go find something for my hostage to eat.
After I fedher fruit and cheese, I quizzed her on all the medications she had to know. Gigi knew them all and found my pronunciations hilarious. I just found her damn cute, and I enjoyed watching her laugh. Far more than I should.
After that, I ordered sushi and we ate. Well, I should say we ate after I showed Gigi where my epinephrine pens were. She’d said, “You can never be too careful, Beau.” I loved when she called me Beau instead of Moreau.
Or idiot. Or Neanderthal.
She always used her soft voice when she did. The only thing better was when she called me, Beauregard, with her French accent.
That was the best.
I had images of her whispering my name to me while she was on her back, underneath me. And I was sunk deep—
“Are you all right?” Gigi asked, surprising me out of my daydream.
“Yeah, why?”
“You had a—weird look on your face. You’re not having a reaction to the sushi, are you?” she asked, leaning into me as I laid on the couch.
I almost laughed at her diagnosis. I wasn’t having a reaction to the sushi, but I sure as hell was having a reaction to her. All twenty-two years of her. Christ she was young.
Too young. Way, way, way too young.
The way she looked and especially the way she acted—her confidence, her take-no-shit attitude—there was nothing about her that screamed, ‘I’m only twenty-two’.
