Because what thefuckwas that?—
and why am I turned on by it?
He holds my stare,
taps two fingers against his hip.
Then lifts his chin. “If I do it? If I survive this night without layin’ a hand on you and tellin’ every guy in here to back the fuck off? You’re spendin’ Thanksgiving at my house. All mine. All day.”
“This sounds a lot like a bet, Andrew.”
“Only if you’re playin’, Allison.”
And he wantsThanksgiving.
FuckingThanksgiving.
Not a date. Not sex.
Not even a blowjob.
He’s betting for turkey.
And mashed potatoes.
With me.
Fuck.
“Okay…”
Yeah.
Not a chance I’m letting him win.
“Then if I win?” I smile.
“You take a week off work. From all of it.”
He goes still.
Yeah, I could’ve bet him anything, too.
Decided to go with the one thing he desperately needs but would never do. Not unless someone makes it a fucking challenge.
“Seven whole days,” I say.
“No hotel. No bar. No backup gigs.”
He starts to speak—pauses.
Then a ghost of a smile,
worn out and lopsided.
“Seven days? The fuck you think I’m gonna do with myself?”
I mutter, shrugging—“Eat a fuckin’ sandwich. Let your moms yell at you. Watch TV with your hand down your pants. I don’t fuckin’ know.”
