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“Because I’m a logical person.” Lie. “I believe in the proven science of probability and statistics. Every single person on the planet has the same odds of rolling a six. It’s math. Jesus, I bet you also match your nail polish to your horoscope and don’t leave the house when Mercury is in Retrograde.”
She scowls. “Funny.” Her eyes slide down to the umbrella at my side and something mischievous dances behind them. “Open it, then.”
“What?”
“If you truly don’t believe in luck, good, bad, or otherwise,” she mocks, in a gruff voice I assume is meant to mimic my own, “then open the umbrella.”
I run my tongue over my teeth. Glance up at the rain hammering on the roof. Fuck, she’s got me there. I’d rather play Russian roulette against my own temple than open an umbrella inside. I’m not even sure if a phone booth counts as inside, but I’m not going to find out.
The next strike of lightning couldn’t have come at a better time. Too distracted by talk of superstition, Penelope forgot to count until the next roll of thunder and it catches her off guard. She yelps. Slams a hand against my chest to steady herself. My muscles tense under the weight of her warm palm. Maybe it’s because it’s past three in the morning, or maybe I’m just out of my fucking mind, but I slide my hand over hers.
“Shh,” I murmur, curling my fingers over her palm. “It’ll stop soon.”
Wide-eyed, she slides her attention down my shirt to where my hand grips hers. Her heavy breathing fills all four walls of the phone booth. Steam rises off our bodies and crawls up the glass, and now I can’t see what’s on the other side of them. It’s just Penelope in here with me, cautious and wet, trembling too close to me for comfort.
A light venom swirls under my skin, itchy and hot.
What was I thinking? I strolled into this phone booth like I was going for a Sunday walk. Like I wasn’t trapping myself into an eight-by-four box with a girl whose half-naked body I’d thought about at least once an hour for three days straight.
Now what stands between me and that lace bra? A couple layers of wet clothes I could have off her body in under ten seconds. Under five, if I was feeling…reckless.
Lust crackles and pops like an electric current running down to the tip of my dick. Fuck the whole Queen of Hearts nonsense. Even if she’s not my doom card, she’s bad for me. Bad for my self-control, and for my image. Just the spark of defiance in her big, blue eyes makes me want to tear off my gentlemanly mask and devour her whole.
I clear my throat and drop her hand, partly because this shirt is Tom Ford, and partly because the softness of her palm against my chest is giving me a semi.
“If you think you’re so lucky, let’s play a game.”
Her eyes narrow, caution warring with interest. “What game?”
Biting back my amusement at her inability to hide her excitement, I pull a dice from the pocket of my slacks. I toss it in the air, catch it, and turn my palm upward with my fingers closed. “Guess the number. If you’re right, I’ll admit you’re lucky.”
She cocks a sarcastic brow. “That’s all it’ll take for you to believe me?”
Of course not. But another flash of lightning has just lit the glass pane by her head, and she didn’t flinch.
“Sure.”
“And what do I win?”
“Bragging rights.”
She rolls her eyes. “And?”
I laugh. “A hundred bucks.”
Another rumble and she doesn’t even notice. “Four.”
“Sure you don’t want to think about it?”
“I don’t need to think; I know.”
It suddenly occurs to me what makes this girl so attractive. Physically being the dictionary definition of my type aside, it’s her confidence that claws under my skin. She’s borderline cocky, which presents a challenge within itself. It seems I crave the satisfaction of knocking it out of her with any means possible.
I uncurl my fingers.
Our eyes clash, hers dancing with glee, mine tinged with disbelief.
You’ve got to be shitting me. With a sly grin I want to wipe off, maybe with my own mouth, she holds her hand out between us.
