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She arches a brow. “Really? Nothing? Are you sure about that, West?”
Oh, she gives good dirty banter, and I lower my voice to a smoky whisper. “Right. You have me there. Nothing sexier…with clothes on, anyway.”
“I beg to differ.” She shrugs one bare shoulder, in a deliciously coquettish move. “Sometimes it’s even more fun with clothes on, shoved aside because you just can’t wait those few extra minutes…”
A groan escapes my lips. This woman owns her sexuality, no doubt about it.
I clear my throat. “I concede. That is sexier.” I hold her gaze for a second, savoring the glimmer in her eyes—the invitation written clearly in them.
But the moment ends when the game master shouts. “Teams four, eight, twelve, sixteen, eighteen, twenty-one, twenty-three, and twenty-six—congratulations, you will advance to round two.”
He slams the bell and it’s my turn.
Wasting no time, I grab the next cube on the edge of the stage in front of us. The pattern of colored squares may seem frustratingly random, but I see possibilities and permutations, and they unfurl before my eyes. I tackle the cube as I have since I was a kid. Intent on the puzzle, I move the sections around and around, making the orange face, the red one, and so on. In fifty seconds, I’m done.
“Wow,” Gigi breathes.
“I told you.” I blow on my fingers. “Under a minute.”
She hums appreciatively. “And to think I doubted you.”
“Did you really?”
She spreads her hands in front of her, a shrug of admission. “Men like to brag, West, but don’t always come through. But looks like you deliver the goods.”
Delivering the goods is exactly what I’d like to do with this puzzle-solving, bustier-wearing spitfire of a woman.
“What do you say we lay a wager on the next round?” I ask. “See which one of us solves it faster.”
She arches a brow, seeming intrigued. “What exactly do you have in mind, Mr. Sexy English Cuber Magic Hand Man?”
And that seals the deal for me. Any woman who can make a seven-word nickname sound that sexy isn’t one you let slip through your fingers.
“I lose, I buy you a drink at the bar down the street.”
She cocks her head. “And if I win?”
“I buy you a drink at the bar down the street.”
“Well, it sounds like I’ve already won, then,” she says with a slow smile.
Or maybe…we both have.
3
GIGI
There has to be something terribly wrong with this man.
He’s probably an axe murderer.
Or he eats sardines for every meal.
Or he trims his toenails with his teeth.
Whatever it is, it must be truly heinous. There’s no other explanation for why this buff, bearded, brilliant, and naughty man hasn’t already been snapped up by an equally magnificent woman.
Or maybe he’s just a serial cheater and a commitment-phobe like all the other men you liked enough to go out with more than once.
Like Nelson, a Manhattan divorce attorney who barked orders at his minions but whispered sweet nothings to me. I stupidly ignored his I-treat-underlings-odiously side. Should have listened to my gut, since he turned out to be odious on every side. Not only did he refuse to ever come to Brooklyn to see me, he also cheated with a client of his, a woman who owns a button shop in the East Village where I sometimes ventured when I needed the perfect button for a vintage ensemble.
Suffice it to say, I do not frequent her shop anymore.
But Odious Nelson and his Buttonista are the past, and I mean to enjoy the hell out of my present.
Meeting West’s gaze over our Scrabble board, I smile. Silly brain, it doesn’t matter what’s wrong with him or if he lives to cheat.
This isn’t the start of a beautiful relationship.
This is one night with a magnetic man who’s made me smile more in an hour than I have in months.
Genuinely smile, I mean. At Sweetie Pies, I’m all over the customer service smile—I have one of the best in the business, if I do say so myself—but it’s been a long time since I felt so…fizzy inside. So excited and eager and filled with anticipation.
It’s just so easy to be with this beautiful Brit.
Maybe that’s what’s wrong with him. Maybe he’s only here on vacation…
“There,” he says, laying down his tiles. “It isn’t as dirty as I’d like, but the letters aren’t playing nice with me this round.”
“Quiz.” I nod in approval as I add to his point column on our sheet of scrap paper. “Twenty-two points. If you can’t be dirty, go for the high score.”
“Precisely what I was thinking. Though, I think you should get extra points for nookie.”
“Thanks, but I don’t need pity points,” I say breezily. “I’ll beat you again fair and square.”
He chuckles. “I already owe you two drinks. At this rate we’ll both be sauced before the end of the night.”
