“Of course!Dawn of the Dead,The Last of Us?” He shakes his head. “What about the South Korean zombie shows, likeAll of Us Are DeadorKingdom?”
“Kingdom? I know a little about that, although I can’t say I’ve seen all that many zombies around the palace.”
I laugh despite myself.
His eyes are trained on me. “Are you worried about your grandmother?”
“A little.”
“Right.”
“What?”
“It’s just you seem a little…tense, I suppose.”
“Who, me?” I squeak, out-mousing Mickey Mouse. “No! I’m good. Great, in fact.”
I overdid it. Particularly when he asks, “It’s the sharing a room thing, isn’t it?”
My shoulders drop. He’s hit the nail right on its head. “You’ve got to admit it’s awkward. I’m a journalist doing a series of stories about you. And you’re?—”
“The story,” he finishes for me.
I scrunch my nose. It’s only the tip of the iceberg, but it’s what I’m running with. “Yeah.”
He rises to his feet, and his broad shoulders seem to fill the room. “Let’s pretend we’re just two friends hanging out together in this seriously soggy town. No journalist. No story. Do you think you can do that, just for tonight?”
Slowly, I nod my head. “I can do that.”
“And also, the bed thing?” He gestures at the bed. “I’m happy to sleep on the floor.”
“We’ve already been through this.”
“I’m a gentleman. My mother would kill me if I let you do that.”
“Your mother doesn’t need to know.”
My words come out a lot flirtier than I intended.
“Arm wrestle for it?” he suggests with a grin.
My eyes glide briefly to his muscular arms, against which the sleeves of his shirt strain. “I’d say you have an unfair advantage.”
He clenches his bicep. “You mean this?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow, and I can’t help but admire how his muscles bulge, despite how cheesy he’s being.
I swallow. “Exactly.”
“How about a pea-knuckle war?”
I snort with surprised laughter. “You’re a prince who plays pea-knuckle?”
“I’m aguywho plays pea-knuckle,” he corrects. “No princes or journalists here tonight, remember?”
“You’re on.” I hold my hand out, and he grips my fingers with his. The touch of his skin against mine does precisely what I expect it to do, as the butterflies in my belly chug another cup of java.
Holding our thumbs aloft, I count, “One, two, three, four, I declare a thumb war!”
“Five, six, seven, eight, try to keep your thumb straight! Ready, set, go, let’s annihilate!
