I open my mouth to condemn her as a dare dropout, but my breath hitches as Kate’s hand moves to the back of my neck. My head plummets forward of its own volition, stupidly allowing her full access to my kill switch.
Kate carries on a one-sided conversation about her day. Her fingers lift and drop each lock of hair across my nape before her thumbs begin to move in sensual circles, massaging the tension that always seems to gather there. This impromptu massage should be relaxing, but I’ve never felt less relaxed.
Each nerve beneath her fingertips is on fire, licking away my sense of reality and fanning fantasies awake. Her other hand runs trails of sparks up and down my forearm, and I wonder if she can feel the electricity rolling off my skin.
Kate’s conversation comes to an abrupt halt, and my eyes slitopen. I catch the hostess’s small huff before she spins on her heel and strides out of sight.
“Well done,” I manage to grate out.
“Thanks.” Her hand drops from my neck.
I straighten, trying to look as though each cell of my body isn’t molten desire for my ex-girlfriend.
“Okay, Mr. Roberts. Your turn. Truth or dare.”
I eye her warily. Hangry Kate is one beast, but this enigmatic, teasing version of her seems even more fraught with danger.
“Dare?” I venture.
“Is that a question?” She arches her brow.
“Yes?”
Kate laughs again, and I lap up the sound like the pathetic, starved puppy I am.
“You’re locked in now,” she says. “I dare you to order the weirdest thing on the menu and eat it.”
“What? That’s not even hard.”
Kate drags a finger down the menu. “You don’t know any French, do you?”
“No?” I take a long pull of my water.
“Thought so.” She clucks her tongue. “Let’s see. Snails or lamb testicles?”
Water spurts out of my mouth, and I scramble to catch it with my palm. “Lambwhat?”
“Testicles,” Kate says sweetly. “They’re a French delicacy.”
“No way in hell am I eating those.”
“Snails it is, then.” Kate waves over a waiter. Ten giddy minutes—on her part—later, a pile of shells steams in garlic-scented goo.
The waiter produces a fork and a set of tweezer-looking things.
I blanch. Am I supposed to rip the snail out of the shell? Why would they make me do that? Isn’t there a chef back there whose sole job is to evict the little suckers?
I pick up one of the butter-drenched shells and maneuver the tongs inside it. It makes a disgusting squelch as I pull out the rubbery piece. Kate has the gall to clap her excitement.
“Cheers,” I mutter, imagining fried chicken as I shove it into my mouth and swallow without chewing. Half of my water glass chases it, and I smack my lips at Kate.
“Delicious.”
She swats me on the arm, laughing. “That was such a copout. You didn’t even chew.”
“You said eat, and I ate. It’s over.”
“Lame,” Kate declares.
