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“I will, if you tell me what color Thursday is.”
His pupils widen, like he’s enjoying the negotiation, and then he pushes the glass of water another inch toward me. “Fine. They’re black, of course. Just like every other day,” he shoots back, an un-yet-seen flash of mischief crossing his face.
Realization dawns that I’ve been played, and I shout, “You cheated!”
“I did nothing of the sort. I never have to cheat to win.”
Huffing, I throw the discarded crust of my sandwich at him. He ducks to the side, watching the piece of bread fall to the ground. Getting up, he picks up the crust, tucks it into a folded napkin, and places it back on my empty plate.
“You’re just a free spirit, aren’t you?” I taunt him, wishing he would let go, just for a moment, so I can see who I’m dealing with. He’s like no one I’ve ever met. Every single muscle in his body controlled, every tiny breath. Has he ever done even one thing that wasn’t calculated down to the atomic level? “What do you do for fun, then?”
“Well, I wear orange tiger-striped G-strings on the weekend, for one,” he jokes for a split second before turning serious again. “Okay, my turn for a question now.”
I shrug. “I don’t remember. Probably pink. Laundry day and all.”
“Not that. What was going on with you at the bar?” he asks, interlocking his hands in front of him, the stare returned.
“Oh, yeah, I don’t want to talk about that. Let’s guess what color that guy’s wearing.” I point to the only other customer in the diner, who’s sitting at the counter. “Although, judging by the way he’s slumped over, in a few seconds, I don’t think we’ll really have to guess.”
“You seemed pretty upset,” he presses, already an expert in ignoring my methods of diversion.
“I’m going to lock in my answer of… hmm, brown, but that wasn’t their original color. Extra points if you can guess the brand,” I push on, hoping he’ll drop his questions.
I’m grateful he helped me. I’m more than appreciative that he bought me two sandwiches and a mystery dessert and has let me tease him for the last hour. But the last thing I want to talk about is my day. And with a complete stranger, no less. It’s bad enough that he heard me blow about a gallon’s worth of snot out of my nose after my little crying fit.
He leans back against the back of the booth, arms crossed, staring me down. “I have three younger brothers. I can do this all night.”
“I’m an only child. I can definitely hold my breath longer than you.”
“Doubtful. I once got someone to sell me their company for £20 million below the market value because I can play this game better than anyone.”
My eyebrow raises. So that explains the expensive suit. “Impressive. I got Angelina Polk to give me her scratch-and-sniff pens because I literally turned blue in the face by holding my breath once.”
“Angelica Polk is an idiot. If you passed out, she could’ve kept her pens and taken anything she wanted of yours.”
“She was eight years old. All she wanted was the scratch-and-sniff pens.”
“What’s your name?” he suddenly pivots, throwing me off guard.
“Are you giving up?”
“Hardly. Just want to know who to send the pens to if you win.”
I clear my throat. “My name’s Luna.”
“Luna,” he repeats with a nod, committing it to memory. Then he gets to his feet and pulls on his suit jacket. “Lovely to meet you, Luna. I’m Kingsley.”
“Wait, where are you going? We haven’t guessed what that guy’s underwear color is yet.”
“I already know the color of the only pair of underwear I’m interested in,” he says, locking his eyes with mine as he tugs on the wrist cuff of his shirt.
I fucking love when men wear suits and do that. It shouldn’t be so hot, but it’s mind-meltingly masculine. And I’ve never seen anyone do it quite like this guy has.
Kingsley.
Good name too.
Strong. Commanding. Sexy.
