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She doesn’t so much as blink, let alone smile.
I cup her face, sobering. “I know. You’re right. It is scary. People do horrible things to each other when they’re dating, things they’d never do to a friend.”
“Right,” she says. “When it should be the other way around. You should be more kind and careful with the people who let you that close, not more awful.”
“Agreed. But I won’t do those horrible things, Gigi. I don’t play those kinds of games. I don’t play games, period, unless they come in a box. So, would you want to come back to my place tonight and play Scrabble with me? And let me make you dinner and show you that we can be friends who care about each other and have extraordinary sex and the sky won’t come falling down?”
She holds my gaze and everything in the background goes soft until her lovely face is the only thing in focus.
Finally, she whispers, “Monopoly not Scrabble.” She steps closer, then turns her head toward my ear. “And the winner picks the location for the main attraction.”
When she pulls away, her eyes look wicked, but sweet, too.
How is that possible?
How can Gigi be so vulnerable with her heart and so naughty with her mouth? But that’s the onion of this woman. And I happen to like onions.
I grab her hand, tug her close, and brush my lips to hers. “See you at eight.”
“I’ll be there.” When we break the kiss, the vixen of seconds ago has vanished. In her place is the woman who said people should be kind. That’s the woman who flashes me a nervous smile but then squares her shoulders and lifts her chin. “And if you invite me to spend the night, I’ll say yes.”
Answering her unspoken question isn’t hard at all. “You damn well better.”
17
From the texts of Gigi James and West Byron
Gigi: Guess where I am?
West: Since it’s 7:55, you’d better be five minutes away. Unless you’re naked in the bath and want to send photos. I will accept tardiness in that case.
Gigi: You like tub photos? Noted.
West: I like YOU photos. Note that.
Gigi: Then, just imagine I’m sending you a picture of me walking out of the wine shop two blocks from your place with a fantastic chardonnay for the chicken you’re making. Because this wine pairs very well with chicken, though honestly, I bought it because I thought it would pair well with your lips.
West: I like your thinking, woman.
Gigi: I also brought a peach pie. Because…peach pie.
West: Peach pie needs no explanation.
Gigi: And I don’t have to be at work until ten tomorrow.
West: Brilliant.
Gigi: Also, West?
West: Yes?
Gigi: I never responded to your text from last night. About the chocolate.
West: You’re not required to respond.
Gigi: I know. But if I were you, I would have wanted a response. I was honestly just…a little scared.
West: Of what?
Gigi: That if I texted back, I’d confess how much I loved buying you a little gift. Picking it out and hoping you’d like it. Hoping that you’d think of me.
West: I loved it, Gigi, and I absolutely thought of you. I think of you often.
Gigi: Good. Because here I am, ringing your bell.
West: Oh, you are definitely ringing my bell.
18
GIGI
Dreams coming true.
I swear I can see them taunting me from just over the hill. Peeking around the corner. Poking their head out like a groundhog in February searching for spring.
I have a wild, loop-de-loop feeling in my chest and suspect that Dreams Coming True might taste even better than the peach pie I brought for dessert.
But first, I indulge in West’s yummy buttermilk-marinated roast chicken and sautéed broccolini and, gasp, bread.
Homemade bread.
It’s warm and yeasty and pillowy. I rip off a hunk and pop it into my mouth. I lick my lips, delighted that my boyf—nope, he’s my date, that’s all—can cook this well.
“If your scones taste anything like this bread, I might have to revisit my feelings about them,” I say after I finish chewing. We’re at the counter in his kitchen, perched on wooden bar stools, surrounded by his fantastic cooking.
Lifting his wine glass, he arches a wry brow. “If you mean that my scones are heavenly, mouth-watering and delicious, you’d be right.” He takes a drink of the wine, then sets it down. “I’m looking forward to you rescinding all those horrid things you said.”
I give him a saucy look. “You’ll have to prove they’re as good as this bread.”
He drops a kiss to my cheek. “That means you’ll have to come over again.”
My breath catches. He asked me for another date.
Though, really, tonight is basically a hookup.
A hookup with yummy food and board games, but still… I shouldn’t jump to conclusions.
Except, those familiar play-it-cool tricks aren’t working. I can’t fool myself any longer, and I don’t really want to. Tonight feels like so much more than casual sex.
