Next time.Swoon.
I shrug as I pick up the fork. “Not sure I understand the concept of drinking alcohol for the flavor. I’ve done, like, shots. But that’s about getting drunk. None of ittastesgood. Except margaritas,” I amend.
“I’m more partial to champagne, myself.” He grabs a plate for himself and slides into the seat next to me.
Huh. An evenclassier bitch.
Now that he’s seated, I load up my fork. “This is really good!” I say, eyes wide and mouth full. Frozen lasagna can suck it.
“Thank you,” he inclines his head and takes a bite.
“Not to sound ungrateful for the meal, but you know you didn’t actually need to wine and dine me, right?” I smirk, twirling another noodle.
“That was fairly obvious from the seduction attempt, yes. But I wanted to. We’re starting over.” He sits back and gestures to the meal, his smile filled with pride. “This is our first date.”
“I thought our first date was tacos and stories of our misspent youth.”
“That was Peter and Madison’s first date,” he counters. “This is SpyderMan and mermaidav’s first date.”
Gah, he is so unbelievably charming. I hide my smile in another bite of noodles. “So, SpyderMan, tell me about yourself. Is it true you’re an assassin?”
“I am—only the wankers who really have it coming, though, I promise. And I usually refer to myself as a hitman. It feels less formal somehow.”
“How are the benefits?”
He quirks a smile. “The life insurance sucks, if I’m honest.” When I laugh, he joins me, and the moment feels 10 times lighter.
“I meant to ask earlier, how did you know my gun wasn’t loaded last night? Part of your hitman training?”
He takes a bite and chews thoughtfully. “About six months ago, you told me that guns scare you and that you’d never keep one loaded in your home.”
“Six months ago?” I repeat, disbelief creeping into my tone. “You remember a conversation we had six months ago?”
“I’ve told you before, Madison. I remember every conversation we’ve ever had.”
His voice is so sincere, goosebumps crawl down my arms and across my chest. “I think I’m starting to believe that,” I murmur, almost too low for him to hear.
But he does hear, and he grins. “All right, my turn. Operating system: Windows or Mac?”
“Trick question.”
His grin turns sly. “Is it?”
“You know it is. The correct answer is Linux.”
“Only for those of us who can’t build their own.”
“Oh, fuck off,” I cry. “You built yourownoperating system?”
“Several, in fact. My first when I was 18.”
I laugh and roll my eyes. “You aresucha nerd.”
20
Wesley
Knobheads can learn.
