He leans forward, narrowing his eyes dramatically. "You need me to help you bury a body?"
I huff. "I’d trust an actual corpse more than you."
He leans back with a fake-wounded expression. "Wow. That almost hurt, sweetheart."
I roll my eyes. It would be easier to just walk out and never speak again. But I’m already here. I’m already this far in. And I hate that I need him.
Him, of all people. I have to find a way to tell him I want us to kiss. Indirectly. Because there is no universe where I would look Gio Fontana in the eyes and say, "Hey Gio, please kiss me. Thanks."
No. Absolutely not. I need a sneaky approach.
I look over my shoulder. "Sophia’s throwing a party." Good opener. Neutral. Non-kiss-threatening. Gio scoffs immediately.
"Oh, that’s the emergency? Let me guess, she’s planning a theme: ‘Queen of Passive Aggression’?"
I ignore the urge to smile. "It’s in two days."
"Good for her," he says, flopping back down.
I press my lips together. "It’s… at her house."
"Shocking." He reaches for the glass beside the bed and takes a long sip. "What, you need a plus one?"
That’s close. I actually need us to make out aggressively in front of her.
Oh God. Is it too late to back out? Yes? No?
Suddenly I don’t care if she gets jealous. Let her think I’m boring. I don’t care anymore.
"No. I…" I hesitate. My palms are actually sweaty. I’ve faced professors scarier than him. "I just think maybe there’s a way to… you know… make her feel bad too."
Gio raises an eyebrow without lifting his head. "What kind of way, exactly?"
My voice is tight. "Something to make her… jealous."
He looks amused. "Sounds like a personal problem."
I glare. "I’m asking you for help, asshole."
"You’ve got a weird way of asking. Try ‘please, Gio, you gorgeous bastard—’"
"Don’t make me regret this."
He takes another sip, eyes on mine, all playfulness. "Then don’t make me think this hard at night, sweetheart. Be clear."
I take a breath. Then another.
"You have to kiss me."
Gio chokes. He literally chokes on his drink, coughing and doubling over. My face is on fire.
I’m two seconds away from writing my will.
If he says yes? I’m done. If he says no? I’m also done. If he laughs? I will simply pass away. Any second now, he’s going to look up at me, and that moment will decide if I survive or if I start digging my own grave from embarrassment.
"Jesus—" he wheezes. "What?"
I stand perfectly still. Embarrassing.
