Without her assistance, he hauled himself up higher on the pillows. His face was alight with anticipation. Despite his easygoing attitude, Genevieve had a feeling Alex was probably about as competitive as she was, which made her happy. “How ’bout we make this a little more interesting?” he asked.
Ahh yes, maybe even more competitive. “How much you talking about?”
“Clothes?”
She laughed. “You lose right now, then.”
Alex looked aggrieved. “It’s not my fault I’m naked. Some chick cut all my clothes off and won’t give me any more.”
“Won’t give you…I don’t have any more, idiot. None that’ll fit you at least.”
“That’s your story. Admit it, you just like to stare at my chest.” He puffed out his aforementioned chest, and then winced.
She snorted in an effort to control the drool collecting in her mouth. “Yes, your manly, beat-up chest.”
“Well, now that we’ve established we can’t play strip poker ’cause you like to look at my nipples”—he raised a hand and spoke over her sputtering—“then I say we play for information.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What kind of information?”
“For every game you win, you can ask me any question in the world. For every game I win, the same rules apply.”
Genevieve hesitated. As attractive as the proposal sounded to learn a bit more about him, there were some areas she just wasn’t at liberty to talk about. “What if there’s something one of us doesn’t want to answer?”
“Then you pay a forfeit.” He grinned wickedly. “A kiss.”
Well, hell, she’d forfeit right then and there. “In your dreams.”
“Hopefully. What are you worried about, anyway? Just don’t lose. Think about it. You can ask me anything you want, and I have to answer it.”
“Fine. What game?”
“Lady’s choice.”
“Rummy.” That was her game, and she would beat his figurative pants off.
Sure enough, she slapped her hand down in less than ten minutes and grinned. “That was easy.”
“Show-off. Okay, what’s your question?”
She paused. She had planned to ask him about his family, but her mouth opened and instead she heard: “Describe your ideal woman.”
“We’re getting personal? Nice. In looks or temperament?”
She wanted to squirm with embarrassment. She should laugh the question off, ask something else… “Both.”
“In looks? Like you.”
“If you’re not going to be serious, we can play for peanuts or something.”
“Why do you think I’m not serious?”
“You’re just flirting with me like you’ve done since you woke up.”
“And why do you think that is? I don’t sleep around, and I don’t have hundreds of girlfriends. I’m being dead honest. I think you’re beautiful. The way you look is perfect—your body, your hair, your eyes. It’s my ideal package.”
“Okay, whatever.”
“You don’t believe me. Why?”
