Don’t blow this, Libby. Don’t lose him.
She still had no idea what he wanted. A fling? Something more long term? Their earlier conversation had insinuated he was interested in the latter . . . maybe even in marriage. But this was Noah, a man who’d informed her months ago that he was allergic to marriage. She would have chalked her confusion up to the alcohol she’d consumed, but she couldn’t do that since she’d barely even had a buzz all night. The drinks here must be watered down.
She knew she should just ask him, lay all the cards on the table, but when she started to ask, her throat squeezed tight.
They sat at a table with another couple and a middle-aged man with a Texas drawl. Noah was right—she hated poker—but you couldn’t really talk to your tablemates, so she had some time to think. But half an hour later, she was a hundred dollars poorer, totally sober, and ready to move on.
“What do you want to do?” he asked. “Tomorrow is your birthday.”
“My birthday,” she sneered. “A pox upon my fucking birthday.”
He looked amused. “Someone’s been binge-watching Game of Thrones.”
She curled her upper lip and looked for another waitress. Getting drunk sounded like an even better idea than before they sat down the poker table. She’d gotten sidetracked with her plan by the game.
“Turning thirty’s not so bad.” He shrugged and grinned. “I survived it with very little scarring.”
“I was supposed to have my life together by now, Noah.”
“What do you think is missing?”
“I wanted to have an exhibit.”
“You’re working on it. You just need to get back on track. Once you get to Seattle, you’ll be able to devote all your time to it.”
Seattle. Over the last few hours, she’d forgotten about moving to Seattle. If she moved to Seattle, what if they tried this and it epically failed? She couldn’t bear watching him sleep with woman after woman.
Now she was even more depressed and confused.
“What else you got?” he asked.
The pact. The curse. She knew it was stupid and juvenile, but she’d thought it might mean someone would love her enough to stick around.
“Libby.” His voice was gentle and coaxing. “Why are you so upset about turning thirty?”
“My life sucks giant donkey balls.”
He chuckled. “How giant? Anything like the Czechoslovakian egg? Because those would be some impressive balls.”
She swatted his lapel. “Don’t make fun of me, Mr. I-have-my-life-together-and-I-had-a-fucking-girlfriend-but-I-don’t-need-her-because-I’m-sexy-and-all-the-women-in-the-world-throw-themselves-at-my-feet.”
“That’s a very long name,” he murmured. “It’s really weird that I don’t remember changing it. And where’s this line of women? It’s the men who are lining up for you, Libby St. Clair.”
“Who cares?” She didn’t want to talk about all the women he’d screwed. Then she had an idea. “It’s my birthday. I want to play a game.”
Hesitation filled his eyes. “What kind of game?”
“A drinking game.” She grabbed his hand and led him to the counter of a nearby bar. As soon as she had the bartender’s attention, she ordered six shots of vodka.
Noah cringed and rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re planning to get totally shit-faced, huh? At least it’s not tequila.”
“Vile stuff.” Back in college, she’d lost a few nights to tequila.
“So what’s this game?” he asked.
She laughed at the fear in his voice. “Truth or dare.”
His eyes widened slightly before focusing on her. “Okay.” He didn’t sound any less fearful. “But I have to warn you that this seems like the wrong place for it. It’s kind of a classy joint. Maybe we should go somewhere else.”
She shook her head. “Nope. This is us. All dressed up fancy but keepin’ it real.”
The bartender started to pour the shots, and when he finished Noah stopped him before he walked off. “Can we have some shot glasses with water? Say six? And a draft beer.”
“Sure.” The guy shook his head muttering something about weirdos as he left to fill the glasses.
Libby was about to pounce on him, but Noah held up his hand in defense. “Since I’ve turned thirty and become an old geezer,” he teased, “I’ll pass out after three shots. Let’s make it last longer.”
“Where’s the fun in drinking water?”
“We’ll mix them up so we won’t know if we’re drinking vodka or water. Like a drinking Russian roulette game.”
“Okay.” She had to admit it was a good idea. “And the beer?”
“Hey, beer goes with everything. So how’s this work?”
“We get to ask each other a question. If you answer my question, I have to drink the shot. If you pass, you do.”
“What can we ask?”
“Anything.”
He pondered it for a moment, then the corners of his mouth lifted slightly. “What about the dare part?”
“Drinking the shots is the dare.”
He shook his head. “Nope. I’ll only play if daring is an option.”
What was he up to? What did it matter? She was the one who’d suggested the game, and she’d done it because she wanted answers.
After the bartender delivered Noah’s draft and their shot glasses of water, Noah mixed up all the shot glasses, then gave her a wink before he took a sip of his beer.
She squared her shoulders. “Okay. I’ll go first.”
Noah grinned. “I’m ready.”
“Truth.” She gave him a sexy smile and leaned forward. “Why did you break up with Donna?”
She studied his eyes, but he gave nothing away as he rested his forearm on the counter. “Many reasons. She was a bitch. She tried to change me. She hated my apartment. She wanted me to get another job, preferably investment banking . . . and she hated you.”
“She hated me? She didn’t even know me.”
“She was jealous of you. I think she knew that she and I would never be as close as you and I are.”
The giddiness she felt over Noah’s misfortune filled her with guilt, yet it was undeniable. But she could understand why Donna hadn’t understood their friendship. Right now she struggled to understand it herself. Better to focus on the other reasons. “She wanted to change all those things about you? What a bitch.”
“She had her moments,” he said with an air of self-deprecation. “My turn.”
“Okay.” She picked up a glass and drank, feeling it burn down her throat. Vodka.
“Do you have any birthmarks or interesting freckles?”
She set the glass on the counter. “Really? That’s your question?”
“Hey, we’re just getting started. Gotta start with the easy ones and work my way up. So? Do you?”
“You already know I have that brown spot on my leg.”
He leaned forward, his hand resting on her exposed right knee. His fingertips made a slow path up her inner thigh, then under the hem of her dress and up a couple more inches. “Right here?” His hand stopped, his fingertips gently caressing her skin. “I saw it last summer when you were wearing that pair of jean shorts you love, the ones with the frayed ends. The ones that make your ass look amazing.”