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“You’re kidding,” I say disbelieving.
“Of course I am.” He finally cracks, laughing at the shocked look on my face. “Babe, Backstreet Boys, really? Do I look like the kind of man that dances around singing ‘Bye, Bye, Bye’?” He impersonates the hand gestures.
“That’s not the Backstreet Boys.” I fight to control my laughter.
“My point exactly.” His easy smile does something wonky to my insides and I find myself struggling to keep hold of the conversation at hand when all I really want to do is climb up his body and have a repeat of last night, this morning, and this afternoon.
“So who is your favorite band then?”
“If I had to pick just one I think I’d go with Manchester Orchestra.”
“I approve.” I nod, causing his smile to spread.
“I didn’t realize I was being judged on my answers.” He narrows his gaze at me, his expression humored.
“Just keeping a running tally.” I shrug, seconds before his incredible laugh moves through the room. With a wide smile on my face, I continue, “Favorite food?”
“That’s hard.” He thinks on it for a moment. “I’m going to go with pasta. Pasta of any kind.”
“So what you’re saying is you’re a carb whore.”
“A what?”
“A carb whore,” I say like that’s a term regularly used in the real world.
“I eat pasta a lot. If that makes me a carb whore then fuck it, I’ll own that title.” His grin stretches across his face, the action giving his eyes almost a sparkle.
My heart thuds in my chest.
“How do you eat a lot of pasta and still look like that?” I point to his abs.
“It’s called the gym, babe.”
“Shut up.” I lay a light smack to his hard stomach. “I know you work out… Obviously,” I say after a thick swallow. “But even if I spent ten hours a day at the gym I don’t think I could eat pasta regularly and maintain any sort of decent figure.”
“Guess I’m lucky.” He winks.
“Men,” I groan.
“Are you done asking me questions now?”
“You’re not that lucky.”
“Well then please, Miss Menton, continue,” he says like I’m some client in a board room rather than the woman in his bed.
“Hmm. Let me think.” I tap my chin like I’m thinking really hard, causing Kane to chuckle. “How old were you when you had your first kiss?”
“Twelve,” he says with no hesitation.
“Twelve?” I gawk at him.
“Kate Malbourne. Behind the shed at her parents’ house,” he says matter of fact.
“Twelve?” I repeat.
“How old were you?” he asks, turning the question on me.
“Not twelve,” I clip. “I don’t know, I guess I was fifteen or sixteen.”
