I glance behind me, trying to recall the last time I felt this loose, shoving the voice telling me I should go home and get some work done down to the bottom of my glass. “You’re on.”
“When I suggested the game, I didn’t realize you were going to fleece me.” He drags a palm down his face in mock anguish.
We’ve been playing for over an hour, and I’ve won every game except one, the first one…that Ilethim win to lull him into a sense of false security.
“Never underestimate your opponent. Answer the question.”
“This is not fair,” he whines. “If I knew I was going to lose so much, I would’ve made my one question so much better.”
“But aren’t you so happy to know my favorite breakfast food is an egg white omelet?” I tease him.
“You’re not going easy on me, love.” He gives me an adorable pout, but I just stare at him blankly, unimpressed.
“Men have it easy enough.”
That earns me a hearty guffaw in agreement, and Ialmostsmile back.
He narrows his eyes, a glimmer sparking in them. “What’s really your favorite breakfast food?”
“What makes you so sure I’m lying?”
“Call it a hunch.” How is he able to read me that easily? I deflect and raise a brow at his brazen assessment, waiting for him to answer my question. His left dimple pops. “Fine. My favorite musician is Harry Styles.”
Now, Idosmile. It’s an unexpected answer, but I guess not all that surprising. Other than when he stepped in to help with the guy earlier, he’s been the poster boy for golden retriever men everywhere: quick to laugh, takes everything in stride. It’s been refreshing.
“Solid choice.” I hold his stare. “I like blueberry lemon pancakes.” Something softens in his gaze, and my heart starts to inexplicably race. I turn abruptly, walking to the dart board to retrieve the needles. “One more game?” It’s nearly midnight, but the pub hasn’t slowed in traffic at all. Around us, glasses are clinking, people are laughing, televisions above the bar displaying everything from rugby match reruns toLove Islandepisodes. Everyone in the room appears unencumbered and happy, like nothing can touch them here, and I’m starting to feel that same magic weave its way beneath my skin.
“One more game—” he agrees, but quickly adds— “but I want to tell you what my question will be now if I win.”
“Why?”
He ambles over to me, stopping only when his shoes touch the tips of mine. “Because I want you to choose to let me win or lose.” His stare is piercing, filled with an intensity I’m not used to and am not sure what to do with.
“What will your question be?” Butterflies wake in my stomach, wings beginning to flutter.
Slowly, he threads his fingers through mine, grabbing hold of a dart needle, but doesn’t let go immediately. Instead, his thumb rubs against the side of my wrist where my pulse hammers. “If I win, I’m going to ask to kiss you.”
The butterflies have fully taken flight, bouncing wildly against my ribcage. It’s a fight to keep my composure. “Start the game, then,” I challenge.
We throw back and forth, evenly matched. I don’t know if he can tell I’m going easy on him, but I don’t particularly care when all I can think about is the way his lips looked when he said he wanted to kiss me. When the turn to determine who wins or loses comes, I look my handsome stranger in the face and throw the dart wide until it imbeds itself into the wall with a deafening thunk.
Slowly, too slowly, as if to give me a chance to run, he prowls towards me. With each step he takes, I take one step back until I hit the wall, left with nowhere to go. When he reaches me, a smirk quirks up the corner of his mouth, and I roll my eyes.
His fingers are featherlight as they trail up my arm until his hand cups my neck, palm warm against my thundering pulse. “Cheeky thing.”
I try so hard not to drift into his touch, to think about howgoodit feels to be touched.
He leans in, breath fanning against my ear, making me suppress a shiver. “I like your brand of bold.” He pulls back to look me in my eyes before asking, “Can I kiss you?”
“Yes.”
“So enthusiastic,” he jokes to rile me up, and it certainly works.
“For fuck’s sake, just ki?—”
He silences me by pulling on my neck, bringing me forward into his chest. “I want,” he places a kiss by my ear, “to take,” another along my jaw, “my time.” I hold my breath when he reaches the corner of my mouth, trying to chase it as he pulls back, feeling desperate and worked up just from a few pecks. “Look at you,” he says, and I honest-to-God feel his phantom caress on every inch of my body.
Then, he leans in,finallypressing his mouth against mine, and all my good sense obliterates like a hand grenade was just tossed into the room.
