I nod.
“I’ve been to thirty-six countries. I’m fluent in Spanish and Italian, though my French is passable, as well. And I like pancakes, but hate waffles.”
“The first one,” I say immediately. “No one’s been to thirty-six countries.”
“You’re right. I’ve been to thirty-seven.”
I stare at him for a beat, not knowing what to make of that statement, so instead I just say, “Wait, you hate waffles?”
He chuckles. “Is that a problem?”
“Um, yes.” I make my eyes bug out. “Only Satan hates waffles.”
“Maybe I’m the devil.”
He says it like a joke, but his eyes are so serious it makes me nervous.
“Okay, the score’s tied, one-one. My turn.” I swallow hard, racking my brain for a good lie. “My favorite flower is the hyacinth. I think the wordmoistis the grossest in the English language, if you’re using it in any context except to describe cupcakes. And I believe there’s a special ring in hell for people who don’t use their directionals while switching lanes.”
His eyes work with thoughts for a few seconds as he weighs my words.
“Hyacinths,” he says finally.
“Ugh!” I screech. “You really are Satan, you know that?”
He grins. “What are your actual favorites?”
“Peonies. The great, big, puffy ones that fall apart after about a nanosecond.”
His eyes go soft around the edges and he looks like he’s storing that fact away in the steel vault that is his mind. “My turn again. And, Gemma, just in case you forgot…” His voice drops low. “I’m winning.”
I cross my arms over my chest and glare at him. “For now.”
He chuckles again, the sound rich and warm coming from his throat. “All right, here goes. I hate text messages — they’re more annoying than mosquitos. I surf, ski, and rock climb whenever I get the chance, which isn’t often. And I have a golden retriever named Charlie.”
“You so don’t have a golden retriever.” I snort. “And, if you did, his name would definitely not be Charlie.”
“How do you know?”
I look him up and down. “People who’ve traveled to thirty-six — sorry, thirty-seven— countries don’t have pets. And besides, you just don’t seem like a dog person, what with that ginormous stick up your butt, and all.”
He narrows his eyes, at that.
“I bet you’ve never even had a pet goldfish.” I grin when he doesn’t contradict me. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
A grudging nod confirms it.
“Sweet!” I pump one fist into the air, victorious. “Two-two. My turn, again.” I pause. “Okay, I’ve got one.”
He lifts an eyebrow, waiting.
“All my friends are married, with varying degrees of success. I can’t cook anything, and I do meananything– even, like, scrambled eggs or toast. And once, in college, I dressed up as Princess Leia for Halloween, with the gold bikini, the hair-buns, and everything.”
He takes a moment to think, his eyes dark with curiosity and amusement. “Do you still have the costume?”
“Are you trying to cheat?”
“Gemma, everyone can make scrambled eggs. It’s biologically programmed into you from birth.” He grins when I make a face. “So, back to the costume…”