“I do.”
“Then you should know that our definition offun stuffis relationships. Breakups. Gossip.” I slide my gaze to him. “Sex.”
He looks at me over his shoulder with a smirk. “Sounds fun to me.”
Our gazes collide, the energy between us shifting. In one way, it’s reminiscent of the way it feels when I look at Audrey or Astrid across a room. We’re on the same page and have each other’s backs. There’s a comfort, an ease that’s built into that kind of friendship. But, in another way, it’s a lot like I’m looking at a man just before he rips my clothes off.
“Fine,” I say, meeting the challenge in his eyes. I’m not about to broach sex, but bantering a bit certainly won’t hurt my ratings.And who am I to deny the people what they want?“I was discussing flowers with my producer today.”
“What about them?”
“Do you think if you’re in a relationship and fuck all the way up, that sending a bouquet of roses helps your case? Or is it a distraction from the transgression?”
His lips press together as he thinks. “I mean, I think sending roses to your woman—or whatever flower she likes, if she likes them—is always a good idea. But do I think it helps my case if I’ve messed up?” He shrugs. “I guess it depends on what I did.”
“What offense do you think itwouldhelp?” I ask.
He grabs the edge of my seat and adjusts his crouching position. His knuckles brush against my thigh. I do my very best to ignore it as a flurry of goose bumps runs along my skin beneath my clothes.
“Let’s say we got into an argument over something small,” he says, “and the next day I want her to know that she’s on my mindand I care about her. Then, yeah, I think flowers help. Don’t you?”
“Oh, this isn’t about me,” I say, laughing.
He shrugs. “Sure, it is.”
“Trust me. We don’t have time for this to be about me.”
His eyes narrow. “You’re telling me you wouldn’t like flowers? Because I call bullshit.”
My jaw falls open, and I laugh again. “Well, it’s a good thing you’ll never have to apologize to me after a fight because I don’t like flowers. They remind me of dead people. You walk into a funeral home, and what’s the first thing that hits you?The smell of flowers.I love massive bouquets for the people who like them, but that person isn’t me.”
He grins. “Funny. I thought I distinctly smelled roses when I walked in here.”
He’s right, of course, but damn him for noticing.Does this man notice everything?Still, I’m not about to concede his point. That would be too easy.
“Drake, I think I know if I like flowers or not.”
“I think you’d love to get them. You don’t want to have to ask for them, and you don’t want them only sent when you’re pissed. That’s what I think.”
His blue eyes peer into mine as he casts a smug grin my way.This bastard.
“Don’t you have sportsball to talk about somewhere else?” I ask, knocking my shoulder gently against his. He’s a rock and doesn’t budge. “It’s baseball season, you know.”
He holds my gaze for a split second longer before turning to the camera. “If you agree with me, drop my name in the comments. If you agree with Gianna, drop hers. I’ll personally go through and count them tonight and see what the people think.”
I laugh as he stands, towering over me, and try to remain unaffected by the whiffs of his cologne as he moves. He turns tothe door. Each step he takes sends another wave of comments begging him to stay.
“Thanks for the keys,” I call out.
He stops in the doorway. For a moment, I think he’s going to say something—probably an innuendo that won’t do either of us any good—but he leaves with a smirk instead.
I clear my throat and remember that I’m live.Shit. I grab my phone, palms sweaty, and smile. “Now that we’ve been rudely interrupted, let’s go back to me teasing about how amazing Friday’s show is going to be. Any guesses?”
As the names roll in mixed with a slew of inappropriate comments, I try to clear my head of all things Drake.
Because he has a way of throwing everything off its axis.
Including me, apparently.
