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I beat his best time at Rubik’s Cube—securing our team the title and a pair of matching T- shirts—and tromped him in our first round of Scrabble. But he doesn’t seem at all miffed by having his fine ass handed to him. Yet another point in his favor. Sore losers are so irritating, but so many men just can’t stand losing, especially to a woman.
“Well,” I say as I select my tiles for maximum point damage, “there are worse ways to end an evening.”
“Says the woman drinking black coffee all night,” he teases.
“Just keeping my wits about me,” I murmur. “For now. So, when do you fly home?” I add casually, as if I couldn’t care less that he’s from a foreign country far, far away.
“No need to fly. I’m in Brooklyn. Just bought a place near the Church Street Station.”
I resist the urge to be giddy about the fact that he’s a twelve-minute walk across the park from my place—eight if I skip the entire way.
This man makes me feel like skipping.
Which is dangerous, not to mention the opposite of sexy.
Men don’t like women who skip, even if their boobs are exceptionally bouncy while they’re doing it. Men like women who are serious or sarcastic or glamorous or, at the very least, not silly. I learned that the hard way after I zoomed down the slide on Governor’s Island— New York’s longest—giggling like a madwoman the entire way, and found Theodore waiting at the bottom with a pained, embarrassed expression.
He did not find my whimsy charming.
He found it so un-charming, in fact, that he broke up with me two days later.
So, now, instead of giving in to giddiness, I hum beneath my breath, my focus on the board. “Nice. You’re close, then. You won’t even need an Uber to get home after I drink you under the table.”
He laughs that husky, delicious laugh of his. “Is everything a competition with you?”
“You started it.” I peer up at him through my lashes. “And no, I’m not all that competitive, really. Just with games. And work. And girlfriends.”
“You’re competitive with your friends? How so?” he asks, then adds more cautiously, “Like…which of you makes the most money or something?”
“No, nothing like that,” I scoff. “I’m not competitive with them. I’m competitive about being their favorite. I want them to like me more than any of their other best girls.” I lift two fingers pinched close together. “Just a little bit more.”
West hums. “Interesting. And why is that, do you think?”
I bob a shoulder, wishing I hadn’t confessed that last bit. I don’t want to get up close and personal with this man, I just want to ride him all night like the rollercoaster at Coney Island.
But there’s no way to steal the words back, so I figure I might as well answer honestly. “I just love them so much. Adore them, really. They’re such clever, kind, creative, funny people. It feels good to be special to someone like that.”
“So, which friend do you like the best?”
I blink, horrified at the thought. “None of them. I like them all exactly the same. My heart has room for dozens of favorites.” I see his point and wrinkle my nose at his smug—but still oh-so-handsome—grin. “Right. Thank you for your insight, Mr. Magic Hands. But I think you should pay less attention to the conversation and more to your final word score.” I place my tiles and glance up at him with a triumphant grin.
“Zax,” he reads with a heavy sigh.
“It’s a—”
“Tool for trimming and puncturing roof slates. Yes, I know. I’ve played that a time or two myself.” He cracks his knuckles. “Nineteen points to you. Which means I need a solid fifteen or more for my next word or I’ll never catch up.”
“It’s all on the line now,” I say breathlessly.
It’s ridiculous to be turned on because he knows the definition of “zax.” Or because he can do math in his head, and quickly too.
But hello, tingles running down my spine.
A man who knows his numbers just rings my bell.
“Time to do or die,” he agrees. He plucks two tiles from his own tray and lays them down next to my Z without breaking eye contact.
Cheeks flushing, I glance down to see he’s played “zek” and whisper, “An inmate at a Soviet labor camp.”
He makes a soft, almost pained sound beneath his breath, and I look up, nipples tightening in my bustier as his gaze bores into mine. “You are…the sexiest woman I’ve ever met. I concede.”
“You can’t concede,” I say, fighting a smile. “I haven’t beaten you yet.”
“Oh yes, you have. I’m utterly destroyed,” he murmurs. “And there’s only one thing that might ease my suffering.”
“And that is?” I arch a brow, electricity dancing over my skin as he takes my hand across the board.
