He actually laughs. “Definitely a word. Cacique, adapted. Native American tribal leader. Or local politician in parts of Latin America.”
I hate him.
I also want to climb him like a tree.
I stare at the board unhappily, then huff and peel off one sock. “My foot’s gonna get cold,” I grumble.
Under the table, his hand finds my newly bare ankle and tugs my foot into his lap. His fingers wrap loosely around it, thumb stroking the arch and toes in lazy passes.
“I’ll keep it warm,” he says.
My brain short-circuits briefly.
“T-thanks,” I manage, staring very hard at my tiles to avoid spontaneously combusting.
Several moves later, it is very clear that Bran hustled me.
He’s not just good. He’sobnoxiouslygood. Every time I think I’ve played something clever, he swoops in with some ridiculous word that snakes along three existing ones and hits a triple letter score like he’s playing 3D chess and I’m working with Duplo blocks.
I’ve removed both socks and my panties, and the only thing standing between me and full nudity is his T-shirt.
The only thing Bran has removed is his own T-shirt.
Which, honestly, feels like a net loss for my concentration. His chest is all broad planes and carved muscle and a light dusting of hair that I keep getting distracted by. The scar on his left side doesn’t help—faint and puckered like an old gunshot, it draws my gaze every time he reaches for his tiles.
“This isn’t fair,” I complain, pushing back from the table to stand and shake my limbs out. “How are you so good at this? No one ever beats me.”
Bran rolls one shoulder lazily. “I’m not an idiot,” he says. “Even though the institution is overrated, I did go to college, you know. I have a master’s in history.”
I blink. Hard. “What?”
He quirks a brow. “Surprised?”
“You…why history?” I ask, fingers automatically playing with the hem of the T-shirt to give my hands something to do besides groping him.
“I was going to teach,” he says, eyes dark and amused. “Decided I don’t have the temperament for it.”
Images flash through my mind—Bran in a classroom, sleeves rolled, glasses maybe, students either terrified or in love with him, probably both.
“Yeah, I can see that,” I murmur faintly.
His gaze drops deliberately to where my fingers are fisting the hem. “Remove the shirt, Tallulah.”
Every nerve ending wakes up at once.
He’s sitting back in his chair, legs spread, hands resting easy on his thighs. But there’s nothing relaxed about his eyes. They’re hot and heavy and fixed on me.
For a second, panic and power war in my chest.
Then I catch the quick dart of his tongue over his lower lip, see the way his fingers flex, and the scales tip.
He wants this. He wants me.
And for once in my life, I’m not going to be the only one who feels exposed.
Slowly, I curl my fingers under the hem and start to draw it up over my thighs. The air feels cooler against the strip of newly bare skin; goosebumps race up in the shirt’s wake.
Bran’s gaze follows the movement like it’s the only thing happening in the world.
