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“It’s less of a game, and more of a…quiz.”
Dan lays two drinks on the table. One’s a whiskey, the other is bright yellow and in a cocktail glass. I glare at the glazed cherry and pink curly straw. “Changed your drink?”
“Changed yours. Lemon drop martinis are less of a choking hazard.”
“Delightful,” I retort dryly. I couldn’t care less about the drink. Besides, I have a rightful suspicion that if I take so much as a sip, there’s a good chance I’ll wake up chained to a radiator somewhere dark and damp.
“A quiz. Tell me more.”
“Five questions. If you answer any of them wrong, I get your watch.”
He cocks a brow. Smirks in a way I’ve already grown to hate. “And if I get them right?”
“You won’t.”
A gruff little laugh escapes his lips, and as he rubs his large hands together, his diamond dice cufflinks taunt me. How did I not realize who he was before? “You’re a confident little thing.”
Little thing. A shiver of displeasure ripples down my spine. Little thing falls into the same category as sweetheart and darling. Patronizing expressions used by men to knock women down a few pegs.
It makes me want to hit his pockets as hard as I can.
“Let’s begin.” He is, of course, confident.
“You don’t want to hear the catch?”
“There’s a catch?”
“There’s always a catch,” I say smoothly, ignoring the way his voice darkens a shade. “None of my five questions are trick questions. In fact, the answer to each is very simple. However, the catch is that you must answer each question wrong. If you answer correctly, you lose, and I get that lovely timepiece on your wrist.” I slide my hand out into the gap between us. “It’d look nice on me; don’t you think?”
He regards my arm with mild disinterest, then glances up at me. Impatience flickers like flames in his irises. “Fine.”
“Have you played this game before?”
His drink is halfway to his lips when he stills. “It wouldn’t be smart of you to take me for a fool, darling.”
A shiver rolls through me. “We haven’t started yet. You can answer truthfully.”
He thinks for a moment. His sip turns into a gulp, then he sets his glass on the bar. “Then no, I haven’t.”
A heady rush coasts over my skin, a blend of excitement and danger.
“Question one. Where are we right now?”
He hesitates. “The moon.”
“Question two. What color is my hair?”
His gaze skims up to my messy top-knot. His throat bobs and he mutters something that barely leaves his lips. What? But before I can put weight to it, he bites out an answer. “Blue.”
“And the color of your hair?”
“Blond.”
“Fuck, you’re good at this,” I mutter, tucking a stray hair behind my ear.
“I’m good at most things.”
The husky insinuation in his tone makes my pulse stop for a second. Something warm grazes my knee, and when I look down, I realize it’s his own. Was he sitting this close a minute ago?
