The silence stretches, but it’s light now, teasing rather than tense. He shifts slightly, elbows still propped on the edge of the tub. “Alright, Eve Crawford,” he says finally, “how about a game?”
“Oh no,” I say immediately. “That tone sounds dangerous.”
He chuckles. “Nothing terrible. Truth or dare.”
I blink at him. “What are we, twelve?”
“Thirteen, maybe. But I promise to keep it civil.”
“I don’t think I believe you.”
He leans forward slightly, not too close, just enough that the words feel private. “You have full veto power. If I askanything you don’t like, you can skip it. No pressure, no consequences.”
I bite back a laugh, shaking my head. “You really don’t give up, do you?”
“Not when I’m winning,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting.
“And what exactly are you winning?”
He holds my gaze for a moment, eyes glinting under the soft light. “Conversation.”
It shouldn’t feel like flirting. It’s just a word, a game, a smile. But somehow my pulse has other ideas.
“Fine,” I say, hoping he can’t tell. “One round.”
He settles back, looking satisfied. “Good. I’ll go easy on you.”
“I’m sure you will,” I reply dryly, even as the corners of my mouth betray me with a smile.
He studies me with that glint in his eye that suggests he’s up to something. “Right, first question. Truth or dare?”
“Truth,” I say immediately.
He chuckles. “Predictable. Alright then—how old are you?”
I arch an eyebrow. “That’s your question? You could’ve asked anything.”
“I like to start with the basics.”
“Forty-three.”
He looks faintly surprised. “Really?”
I tilt my head. “Why? You thought I was older?”
“No,” he says quickly, hands raised in surrender. “You just don’t look it.”
I narrow my eyes. “Flattery already.”
“Flattery’s strategy,” he says, smiling. “Your turn.”
“Truth or dare?”
“Truth,” he says, still looking far too comfortable.
“How old are you?”
He grins. “Forty-two.”
