I sit up straight, swinging my legs out from underneath me because my knees are beginning to ache. “The answer to number one is whatever is on top hits.”
Klein stares at me.
“What?” I challenge.
“Terrible answer,” he grimaces. “We are going to need to do some work on your taste in music.”
I palm my chest, pretending to be offended. “I like what I like.”
“I’m adding ‘expand Paisley’s musical horizon’ to our contract.”
My eyebrow quirks. “The one you filed with the department of contracts?”
“Bureauof contracts,” he corrects.
I start to laugh, then stifle it with a cough.
“You can laugh at my joke, Paisley.” His voice grows huskier, chin dipping my direction. “It’s allowed.”
Oh-kay. We need to get back on track here. “I’ll remember that for next time.” Glancing down at the paper, I ask, “What was the next one?”
He doesn’t have to look at his paper. He already knows. “Karaoke song.”
“Easy.” I relax back into the couch cushion. “She’s In Love With A Boy by Trisha Yearwood.”
“Never heard of it.”
My mouth opens in what is likely extremely unattractive bewilderment. “Dealbreaker. The agreement is off.”
Klein reaches behind himself, removing two throw pillows and, making use of the name, tosses them on a nearby chair. He leans back on the couch and looks up at the ceiling. “Sing it for me.”
Umm...excuse me? I sing, but terribly, and only when nobody can hear me. “That’s a hard no.”
“Come on, Paisley. There is no worse singer than I, so you’re already better than me.”
“Look up the song. It’ll take ten seconds.”
“Probably less, but I would rather hear you sing it.”
“Why, so you can take the knowledge and add it to your little stockpile of ammunition?”
His head turns and he looks at me. “What?”
“I let it slip that I looked you up on the internet, and then I saw you mentally tucking it away for later use. Gunny sacking, I believe that’s called. And,” I widen my eyes at him, “you made sure to tell me looking me up was the last thing you wanted to do.”
The comment still smarts.
He sits up, bending a knee and bringing it between us. He’s so big that he takes up almost the entire cushion. With an expression of utter seriousness, he says, “I said it was the last thing I wanted to do. Not that I didn’t do it.”
The clarification hits its mark. “You looked me up?” What a relief to know it wasn’t only me haunted by him. By what we could have been if we’d talked after that kiss, or at all during that semester.
His arm has been resting on the back of my couch, and he bends it now, pinching his bottom lip between two fingers as he considers how to say something. “I looked you up twenty-two times. And every time I did it, it was the last thing I wanted to do because I knew it would lead to nothing but regret.”
I mirror his posture. Mere inches separate our knees. “Regret? About the story critique, you mean?”
His lashes are long and full and his eyes are laser focused on me. “Sure,” he answers slowly, and I’m almost positive it’s a partial truth.
“I’ll have to remember you’re a wordsmith. I’m not used to paying special attention to what people are saying.Usually words are words, but with you—“ my head tilts, “I get the feeling they’re more.”
