Lulu:Question #17: Is it true that hockey guys are the filthiest?
I choke on my soda. Jake gives me a look across the booth, but Reid’s the one who speaks, loud enough for me and only me. “Careful, Miller. You’ll sprain a thumb replying too fast.”
I flip him off under the table, but it’s no use. My phone vibrates again.
Lulu:Question #18 is a serious one: Why do guys act like they don’t care after, even if they do?
I stare at that one, heart pounding. Eli’s right there, maybe two feet away, arguing with Ryan about faceoff percentages. If he knew—if he evensuspected—this whole table would explode.
But I type anyway.
Me:Sometimes it’s not that we don’t care. It’s that caring scares the shit out of us.
I hit send before I can regret it. The second it delivers, I want to take it back. Not because it isn’t true, but because it is. This is terrifying. Dangerous.
This isn’t safer at all. This is me walking straight into the fire, and not wanting to turn back.
***
By the time I walk through my front door, Dusty barrels into me, and Lulu’s voice floats from the kitchen. Garlic, rosemary,something rich and warm, hits me next. My stomach growls like I haven’t had two shakes and a protein bar in the last hour.
She’s at my stove again. Bare feet on my tile, hair twisted into a loose braid, music humming low through the speakers. She glances up and her whole face lights up. I don’t remember a time when someone seemed so genuinely happy to see me, apart from Dusty.
“Perfect timing,” she chirps. “Grab the potatoes out of the pantry for me?”
I do, even though every sane part of me knows I should turn back around before this goes nuclear.
We prep the meal together at the island, me chopping potatoes, Dusty sprawled at her feet. Lulu hums along with the music, then casually drops, “So… you never answered most of my questions.”
I pause mid-chop. “Jesus, you’re relentless.”
She grins, unbothered. “Question twenty… hand placement when kissing—thigh, waist, or jaw?”
“Depends,” I grit out. “Who’s doing the kissing?”
Her eyes glitter. “Hypothetically?”
“Hypothetically.”
“Then… you.”
My knife hesitates on the board, knuckles whitening on the handle. I clear my throat, force my voice to come out unfazed. “Then all three.”
Her eyes flare with satisfaction before she casually turns back to the broccoli.
And it only escalates from there. Every time she reaches across the counter, her hip brushes mine. Every glance is pointed, every “question” more of a dare. She hums along to the music like this is any other night, as if she’s not actively setting me on fire. By the time we’re nearly ready to eat, I’m a live wire.
“Okay, final one,” she says, glancing over her shoulder. “From your answer earlier. I’m pretty sure guys don’tactuallylike giving oral. They just pretend.”
The knife stops dead, and my jaw locks.
“Who the fuck told you that?”
She blinks at my tone, too casual to be innocent, then shrugs.
“Just… experience.” Then, with a maddening tilt of her head, she adds the final blow. “Maybe I’ll test your theory next time I go on a date. You know, use all this intel you’re giving me.”
Something inside me snaps. The thought of her with selfish assholes who didn’t put her first already makes my blood roar. But the thought of her putting these Q&As into practice with someone else? With some random fuck who doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as her?
