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I smirk.
“Aloof and reserved! I just looked up your Myers-Briggs while I was finishing the food. Want me to read it to you?”
I watch her navigate to a web site, and when the letters INTJ appear at the top, I grab the iPad from the bottom, sliding it right out of her hands before she even knows what happened.
She shoves me. “Sneaky ass.”
I turn away from her and skim the description, shooting incredulous looks over my shoulder at her as I start reading them aloud: “‘Values intelligence, knowledge, and competence. Lives in a world of ideas.’” I widen my eyes, shaking my head. “Aloof and reserved. That’s what you think of me?” I ask with mock fury.
She giggles.
“‘INTJs spend a lot of time in their own minds, and may have little interest in other people’s thoughts or feelings.’” I turn toward her. “Little interest? Self-centered? Difficulty expressing themselves?” I arch an eyebrow. “Gwenna, this is very telling. What you think of me…”
She swats my arm. “It doesn’t say self-centered. I don’t think it says that other stuff either.”
I’m only teasing, but her cheeks are red.
I give her a pointed look. “What’s yours, mmm?”
I can’t help it: I enjoy watching her squirm. She doesn’t want to tell me her type, which I find fucking hilarious.
“Let me see if I can put my finger on it… Hmmm.” I look at her with arched brows, then glance through the site index as I tap my chin. “I’m going to go with…The INFJ Advocate.”
Her eyes widen, and I grin because I know I’m right. I skim the first few paragraphs of this personality’s description, then fix my eyes on hers and recite what I just read.
“The INFJ is very rare, making up less than one percent of the population. INFJs see helping others as their life’s work, but while people with this personality type can be found involved in rescue and charity work—” I arch a brow— “their real passion is to get to the heart of the issue so people need not be rescued at all.”
I blink back down at the iPad screen, stricken for a moment by a feeling of unease.
“INFJs need time alone to decompress and recharge, and at times may suddenly withdraw. They take great care of others’ feelings, and they expect the favor to be returned.”
I reach out and ruffle her hair, and Gwen snatches the tablet from me. “You’re making fun of me. I can so tell.”
I grin so wide, my cheeks hurt. I pull her close so I can kiss her, and I look into her brown eyes. “I wasn’t, but I am now. Kind of fun. You get all flustered.” I press my forehead against hers, and she tugs at my hair.
“Maybe you just don’t care about my feelings,” she teases.
“What are they?” I narrow my eyes in mock scrutiny. “Are you trying to save me, Gwenna?”
I watch her throat move as she swallows, watch her face and eyes—because despite my joking tone, her answer to the question feels important.
She stares at me without expression for a few long seconds, and then speaks slowly, thoughtfully. “I don’t think you need to be saved. Maybe just fed and occasionally cuddled.” She finds her smile again, and she looks confident and beautiful. “I don’t expect you to confess to that, of course. Not Mr. Secret Agent GI Joe.”
I arch my brows and give her a damning stare—100 percent jest, not that she can likely tell. “Now whose feelings are being stomped on?”
“Fine.” She laughs. “I guess GI Joe does seem a little…tacky and stereotypical when you really think about the name. We’ll shorten that to Mr. Secret Agent.”
“Not so secret.”
“True,” she murmurs, smiling her cute, lopsided smile.
“You haven’t asked me more about it.”
She winks. “All in good time, soldier boy.”
I can’t help wondering if she’s avoiding all talk of my past because she knows I’m so fucked in the head.
That gnaws on me as she gets our plate and slides down off the bed. “You want to make something, or watch me? Or maybe skip the baking and watch TV?” I bring my eyes up to meet hers. “I bet you’re behind on a lot of shows.”
