She scowls, but grabs her laptop from the coffee table, aggressively typing as she pulls up Spotify.“Fine.But we need kid-friendly music.”
I nod solemnly.“Agreed.That’s why we should open with Pony by Ginuwine.”
Her eyes snap to me, horrified.“Joel.”
“What?It’s about horse riding.”
She lets out a murderous sigh.“I am begging you to take this seriously.”
I lean forward, bracing my elbows on my knees.“Okay, fine.No Ginuwine.But what about a nice, neutral option?You know.Something that works for all audiences.”
Anna narrows her eyes.“Like what?”
I pause for dramatic effect.
Then I say, completely straight-faced, “I Want Your Sexby George Michael.”
Anna stills.
For the first time in this entire conversation, she doesn’t roll her eyes.She doesn’t throw a pillow.She just looks at me.
And something in the air shifts.
It’s subtle at first.Just the way her lips part slightly, like she wants to say something butthinks better of it.The way her shoulders go rigid—not in anger, not in exasperation, but in something else.Something that makes my pulse thud heavy in my ears.
She knows what I’m doing.
She knows I’m pushing it.
And she’s deciding whether to push back.
I let the silence stretch between us, waiting, watching.My smirk is still there, but it’s different now—heavier.
Her tongue darts out, wetting her lips, and I nearly forget how to fucking breathe.
I shouldn’t be thinking about this.About her.About the fact that she readsthatkind of book and how—deep down—I like knowing it.
I like knowing that under all that sharp, biting sarcasm, there’s thispart of herthat gets lost in those kinds of stories.
That wants that kind of heat.
And fuck, now I’m imagining her like that—flushed, breathless, eyes hazy as she?—
Nope.
No.Not going there.
I shift, suddenly feeling too warm, but I refuse to break first.Instead, I watch her watch me, neither of us moving.Neither of us daring to breathe too deep.
It’s reckless.
It’s stupid.
It’s so fucking dangerous.
And I love it.
Then—