“Seriously?” I giggle, which is unfair, because he’s not playing along. “Forget about it. You’re a cheat, Gray.”
He swallows whatever he was about to say, his eyes softening. “Gray?”
Shit. “Like your eyes,” I blurt. “You have… gray eyes.”
He knows the color of his own eyes, Scarlett.
“Right.” He clears his throat, and for a moment, I’m sure heknows. That I know him. That we’ve met before. But then I realize, even if he’s caught on thatIknow whoheis, he doesn’t know whoIam. Not yet, at least. “Okay. You want the dirt?”
Distracted from my spiraling discomfort, I nod. “I want thefilth.”
“Fine.” The waiter comes to take our plates and, after depositing the lobster ravioli between us, leaves again. “The reason you should never, ever date me is…”
I wait as he breathes out, not sure if I’ll get a genuine answer or another deflection. But then he looks up, and as his gaze meets mine, a shiver runs down my spine. “That I’m trouble, Freckles. The kind of trouble you don’t walk away from.”
the slow burn[trope]
a romance technique involving two people who clearly belong together but enjoy dragging out shit for no reason; characterized by lingering looks, accidental hand brushes, and enough unresolved tension to give anyone a headache; usually ends with the audience screaming, “about f*cking time!”
“Favorite movie?” he asks as we stroll down the main street.
I take a long moment to think it through, adjusting my mask over the bridge of my nose. “I don’t know… uh,American Pie?”
“American Pie?” He looks at me, horrified. “You thinkthat’smy favorite movie?”
“Well, not anymore.”
He narrows his eyes, pretending to sulk. “A douchebag—that’s what you see when you look at me, don’t you?”
I flippantly brush my hair off my shoulder. “I plead the Fifth.”
He slows his pace, noticing that I’m lagging a bit thanks to these ridiculous heels Paige forced me into. I think he knows I’m teasing.Yes, he is annoyingly smug but also… attentive, staring at me like he actually cares about every random word that falls out of my mouth. It’s refreshingly rare. And fun. Something I hate about dating—which isnotwhat we’re doing—is the awkward silence. The forced conversations. There’s been none of that during our three-course dinner.
“Okay, let’s see,” he says, studying me head to toe. “Favorite color… yellow?”
“Black, actually.”
He hums thoughtfully, as though this black revelation is a clue to my innermost soul. “I can see that.” He claps his hands. “Okay, this next one’s crucial, so please, try not to screw it up.”
“Hit me.”
He steps in front of me, clasping his hands as if praying. “My guilty-pleasure song.”
“Oh, easy. Backstreet Boys, ‘I Want It That Way.’?”
He grimaces, shaking his head dramatically. “Are you kidding me? That song is a certified masterpiece. No guilt required.”
I give him a long, appraising look, then cross my arms. “?‘Mambo No. 5’?”
He recoils, turning his back on me. “Wow.” He holds one finger up. “Last chance. Don’t blow it.”
I bite back a laugh. “?‘Barbie Girl’?”
He doubles over in laughter, shaking his head. “You know what? Close enough. ‘Call Me Maybe.’?”
“Oh my God. Are you serious?”
“Yes. I had a pet tarantula, and I walk around whistling Carly Rae Jepsen. I’m layered and eclectic.”
