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“Let me guess … it’s because I’m devilishly handsome, isn’t it?” I make my best effort to waggle my eyebrows.
She snorts and gives me a shove just as the elevator opens up to the basement.
Before I can regain my balance, Shorty sprints out the door. That little head start is all she needs.
“Aha!” Sitting by a cluster of couches is the missing chair. Without any preamble, she belly-flops onto it. “I win! It’s mine!”
I follow at a more sedate pace, watching her wriggle around on the seat, wearing a huge grin. The sight has me struggling to clear my throat. I thought she was cute when she was angry with me, but this happy, beaming version of Shorty puts all others to shame.
Maybe I should spend more of my time trying to get her to smile rather than scowl.
Too bad I have to point out an unpleasant reality.
“Not sure this is over quite yet, Shorty.”
She pops up, sitting cross-legged in the chair, her face falling back into a defensive frown. “Yeah, it is. I’m here. I’ve got the chair. Accept your defeat.”
I snort before crouching down beside her. “You’re really going to tell me the chair is all you care about? That it’s the only thing that makes The Spot so great?”
Her eyes won’t meet mine as she pinches the leather on one of the armrests.
I push a little more. “You’re fine with sitting down here? In the basement? No windows? No nice lamp? No coffee table?”
She groans and collapses back on the chair, her backpack making her spine bow out at a dramatic angle. With her sitting like this, her chest presses against the baggy material of her sweatshirt. I can make out the slopes of her breasts, reminding me of the pleasure of having them molded against my back just a few minutes ago.
“Okay.” Her answer pulls me back to the present. “You’re right. It’s not just the chair.”
She struggles to lift herself up, so I stand with an extended hand. After a side-eye look at it, she concedes and slides her palm into mine.
The touch of her soft skin against mine is too good to give up. When she’s on her feet, I keep ahold of her as we stare down at the chair.
“This is a two-person job. I think we might need to call a temporary truce.”
I watch her chew on her lip as she glances between the piece of coveted furniture and the elevator. “What are the terms of the truce?”
Her hand is still in mine, which I take as a positive sign.
“Terms … good idea.” I fiddle with her palm as I sort through different options, fascinated with the small calluses I find at the base of a few of her fingers. “How about we work together to put the chair back, and then we flip a coin? Winner gets The Spot today.”
When I look down to see how she takes my suggestion, I find her watching our hands. I bite down on my lip to keep from smiling.
“Okay. I can agree to that.”
Success.
Time to give another push. “And you tell me your name. Your real name.”
That gets her peeking up at me, a self-satisfied smirk decorating her round face. Maybe I shouldn’t have shown my hand. Now, she knows she has something I want. And if I thought she’d give that bit up without anything in return, I was naive.
“That’s not really balanced, is it? I should get something else too.”
“Oh, really? Like what?”
She purses her lips and squints her slim eyes as she stares at me. Then, like the sun bursting from behind a cloud, a glorious grin spreads across her face.
“You have to tell me an embarrassing story about yourself.”
Sneaky little witch.
