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“Is that so?” he asks, eyeing me as though he half-believes what I say. “I’ve had a few nicknames in my time. The first was my least favorite.”
“You got that when you were a kid?”
“Yeah.” He draws a finger over his bottom lip. “One of the twins who lived next door thought it would be fucking hilarious to call me Rabbit.”
“Because?” My smile makes it obvious that I’m taking way too much pleasure in this.
“Before braces were slapped on these pearly whites, I had an overbite that was so severe that when someone told me to shut my mouth, I literally couldn’t.” He flashes me a glimpse of his perfectly straight, white teeth beneath a brilliant smile.
“So the boy next door called you Rabbit because…”
“It rhymes with Abbott and because I looked like a rabbit for a good year or two.” His gaze drops to the table. “Frannie thought it was the funniest thing every time she called me that.”
The twin was a girl.
“Did you have a nickname for Frannie?” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.
“No.” He shakes his head. “She was just Frannie to me.”
I run a fingernail over the rim of the wineglass in front of me. “You said that was your least favorite nickname, so what’s your favorite?”
“Rush,” he says without hesitation.
I blink twice. Sandy called one of her boyfriends in college Rush because he was a two-minute man in bed. She bestowed that name on him after they slept together. I’m the only person who heard her say it, but whenever we take a trip down memory lane, she brings him up.
There’s no way Case earned that nickname for the same reason. Although, he did only need fifteen minutes with Maya the other night and today I overheard Maya say that their time with Pam and Rod in the bedroom was hurried.
“Why don’t you seem surprised that’s my nickname?” he questions with a raise of one brow.
I laugh off that comment a little too exuberantly. “My roommate in college had a boyfriend she nicknamed Rush. Who calls you that?”
Leaning back in his chair, he narrows his eyes. “Only one person does.”
I might as well take this conversation to its destined end. “Is it Maya?”
He recoils back. “Maya? Why would she call me Rush?”
Dammit.
Since I don’t want to answer that directly, I try a new approach. “Is it another woman?”
His brow furrows. “It’s my grandfather.”
“Oh,” I start laughing. “I thought…well, I was wrong.”
I pick up my glass and finish what’s left of my wine. I look over to the bottle, but it’s empty.
“Why did you think Maya or any woman would call me Rush?” His voice is gruff.
If I confess the truth, I may end up having to use the Duotrip app tonight to find a hotel room. If I lie, I may very well end up in the same spot.
Truth or lie. I weigh both as he stares at me.
“Why does your grandfather call you Rush?” I ask in a desperate last-ditch attempt to avoid the question.
“I’ll tell you as soon as you answer my question.”
I swear I spot a grin flash across his lips, but it disappears quickly.
Sucking in a deep breath, I fumble my way through the truth. “You didn’t need much time with Maya the other night and then… today…well, today, there were four of you in the bed, and it sounded like it all happened pretty fast, so I thought…”
His laughter booms through the restaurant, drawing curious glances from the people around us. “Jesus, Emma. You thought I was a quick fuck?”
I shrug. “I overheard you talking to Maya. I just assumed…”
His brows arch. “You thought Pam and Rod were in my bed today?”
He laughs again. This time his hands dart to his face.
I watch as he clears tears away with a brush of his fingertips.
“I haven’t laughed that hard in,” he starts before he chuckles again. “Fuck, it’s been years.”
His big frame shakes as the laughter rolls through him. I sit silently watching as it slows, until he sucks in a deep breath, letting it out on a heavy exhale.
My gaze falls to the table. “I’m sorry.”
“For making me laugh?” He swirls the wine left in his glass. “Or for assuming I’m a horrible fuck?”
I shrug. “Both.”
He brings the glass to his mouth to swallow what’s left. His tongue darts out to capture any droplets of liquid lingering on his bottom lip.
Lowering the glass, he looks at me. “Let me clear up any confusion. When I’m with a woman, I savor every moment. I take my time, and I guarantee that when we part, you’ll be completely satisfied.”
Freudian slip or not, I want confirmation of what I think I just heard. Before I can ask if he meant what he said, he clears his throat.
“She’ll be completely satisfied,” he corrects himself. “I meant she will be.”
