And remind myself to put my acting face on. She can’t know how much this question affects me. It mightseemlike a simple enoughyes or notype, but in this case, it’s far from it. Did Buffy, in a drunken slosh, slam her lips against mine so she could run and tell everyone, including Brinley while she was on the job, that we kissed? Yes. Did I kiss her back when that happened? The answer is no, I stopped things.
The very unsatisfactory answer I gave Brinley when she confronted me two years ago was, ‘not exactly.’Needless to say, the elaboration process that followed was a fail. But if you ask me, it failed because Brinley wanted it to. I can’t help but think she had her mind made up when she suggested we take a break, though I’m not exactly sure why.
Brinley narrows her eyes at me, leans against the back of her chair, and folds her arms over her chest.
And because I don’t consider what happened on that night to be “me kissing Buffy” I give her the most honest one-word answer I can. “No.” The second the word leaves my lips I feel like a liar, and it’s probably written all over my face. But then a question comes to mind. A way I can elaborate without breaking the rules.
“If a guy kissed you without your wanting it and you stopped it,” I start, “would you still say that you two kissed?” Sure, it’s using up one of my two questions, but I don’t care. This matters.
Brinley’s nostrils flare the slightest bit as she glares at me, irritation hot in her eyes. It’s the exact look a woman might pull a millisecond before she slaps a guy. Luckily, there’s a formally set tabletop between us.
She licks her lips, shakes her head, then props one fist beneath her chin in a signal of boredom.
I lean forward as I sense the answer is on the tip of her tongue, heart racing at a wild, irritated pace. I watch as those pretty lips frame that one single word as the sound hits my ears.
“Yes.”
CHAPTER10
Brinley
Talk about a buzzkill.
I nudge a succulent-looking crabcake with the prongs of my fork as I summon my appetite. I had one a moment ago, a big one too. I was sure I could eat all seven courses of this meal without so much as a pause.
But then I had to ask. I had to ask Dawson the one question that would suffocate the good vibe completely. He never could answer that question to my satisfaction. He’d dance around it, of course, claiming he had no desire to hook up with Buffy that night, but I have my reasons for not believing him.
I have two more questions to ask, and Dawson has one, but here we are, approaching our final course, and neither has bothered. In fact, we’re not even messing with small talk anymore. I’m too ticked off and I can tell he is too.
Yet just as I tip my fork on its side to cut a small bite from the crab cake, Dawson clears his throat. I glance up to see that confrontational look in his dark brown eyes.
“When you said we should take a break, were you honestly wanting to make things work?”
I lift a brow and work to process his question. Did Ihonestlywant to make things work—that’s what he’s asking. The insinuation, of course, is that I didn’t want to make it work, which is ridiculous.Thisis what he wastes his questions on? A lame rebuttal to my first question and an accusation that I wanted it to end in the first place?
I don’t hesitate. “Yes.”
Dawson pinches his lips closed and glares down at his food. He mumbles something indecipherable, but I’m pretty sure it was something like‘Yeah, right.’
Wow, he has some nerve. I’ve got two more questions left, but at this point, I’d rather abandon my plate of food, stomp up the stairs, and try burning holes into the wall with my raging glare. I wonder if they’d bring dessert up for me.
Yet it seems as if my brain’s been having a conversation with itself and taking votes on a question in my head, because suddenly I spit one out. “Didyou?”
His gaze darts to mine, legitimate shock in his stare.
“Didyoureally want to make things work out?” I add, though it shouldn’t be necessary.
Dawson’s glare turns severe. The seething, heated look reminds me of his role in the Warrior the moment he ran a blade clean through his enemy. His clenched jaw eases just enough for him to speak. “Yes.”
I want to take satisfaction in his response since he obviouslythinkshe’s answering honestly, but I’m not able to.
“Whatever,” I can’t help but say. I glance toward the cat den, thinking this would be a very good time for Moonshine to dig his claws into someone right now. Preferably Dawson, but he’s too busy dangling from the top tier of their play tower. It’s a frightening thing to witness, honestly, when considering that many a rear end has taken the place of that carpeted tier.
Muffin flops lazily onto her cat sofa while her paws—pink pads and hidden claws—sprout like four fluffy beanstalks into the air.
I let my gaze absently float back to Dawson and catch him looking at me with a new, soft expression. I look at him longer than I mean to, but only because I can’t dissect that look.
“You really like those cats,” he says.
