Why does she have to be so goddamn beautiful? On a scale of one to ten, Quinn’s a fifteen. Too bad it’s not just her level of attractiveness that makes her out of my league. But it is what has me tugging on my shorts to create more space for the boner that refuses to quit.
“If you could get rid of any inanimate object, what would it be?”
And…this is why she pulls answers out of me. Throughout the two hours we’ve battled it out in the most intense Dr. Mario gameplay I’ve ever been a part of, she’s thrown out some of the most random inquiries.
Who has an inanimate object they hate enough to wish out of existence?
Though…she did give me the perfect opportunity to fuck with her.
“Oh…that’s an easy one.” I move around until I mirror how she’s sitting, a tiny kernel of guilt forming in my gut when she bounces excitedly. “Post-it notes.”
She gasps, her jaw dropping and eyes widening. “You monster,” she whisper-shouts.
She’s so damn fun to tease. Her unfiltered reactions are adorable.
“You know what?” She huffs, her nostrils flaring as she crosses her arms.
Unfortunately, all that does is highlight the way her cleavage swells, the scalloped lace of her bra peeking over the scooped edge of her tank.
Why does it have to be lace?
Do her panties match?
Should I ask her next time I win and get to ask the questions?
Better yet, would she answer?
“—because of it.”
Lost in thoughts of what Quinn looks like in her underwear—I bet she looks fucking hot covered in lace—I miss most of what she said. “Huh?”
“Wow…as your coach”—there’s a pointed emphasis on the title—“I feel it’s my duty to tell you that not paying attention to what your date is saying is bad date etiquette.”
“Guess it’s a good thing you’re not really my date,” I joke.
“CK!” Quinn’s voice goes three octaves higher.
I can’t help but chuckle. Damn…I was missing out all of these months. All that wasted time avoiding her when we could have had easy fun like this.
She flops forward, burying her face in the small diamond shape created by our crossed legs, shaking her head. Her voice is muffled, but I can still make it out when she speaks. “First you come for my precious Post-its”—she whips her head up, resting her chin on my calf muscle—“now you’re gonna insult the awesomeness of this afternoon?”
Notching a finger under her chin, I press until she straightens, leaving my hand in place because…well…because she hasn’t asked me to remove it. “I didn’t mean to insult the day.” And because I’m feeling bold, I stroke my thumb down the line of her jaw. Was she a little slower to open her eyes after that blink? “Can you forgive me, Red?”
She folds her lips between her teeth, but whatever smile she was trying to restrain breaks free within seconds. “You keep calling me Red, and I’ll consider it.”
“Good.” Not wanting to push my luck, I drop my hand and pick up my controller, scrolling through the menu to start a new game. “Now tell me how you got so good at Dr. Mario.”
“Oh no.” She clucks her tongue. “I still get another question.”
I bite my lip. Of course Quinn didn’t forget. She’s like a damn dog with a bone. Instead of skeletal remains from the ground, she drags answers out of me. So much for hoping she lost count.
I make a rolling motion with my hand for her to proceed.
“What character—whether book, television, or movie—were you inexplicably scared of growing up?”
I pause, my thumb hovering over the start button in the center of the controller, then crane my neck to see over her shoulder.
“What are you doing?” Quinn asks on a laugh, knocking the same shoulder I was trying to peer around into mine.
“I’m looking for your phone.” I try one more time but don’t spot anything. “You have to have a list or something on you—how else are you coming up with this random shit?”
“It’s all up here, big boy.” She taps her temple the same way the guy does in the GIF I’ve learned is one of her favorites to use any time she tries to convince me she’s had a good idea. “Now stop stalling and spill the damn tea.”
“That’s not really what—”
She cuts off the correction with a Stop talking hand gesture. “Christopher,” she warns.
Oh, this is going to be embarrassing. “You can’t judge me,” I caution.
“I would never.” She lays a hand over her heart. “Even if you tried to denounce my prized Post-its.”
I can’t even with this woman.
“Okay…ready?” She nods. “E.T.”
Her mouth falls open in a wide O.
She circles a finger in the air and asks, “What makes you afraid of a Reese’s Pieces-loving alien?” To her credit, she doesn’t laugh.
I swallow the lump that jumps into my throat. If I have nightmares tonight, I’m waking her ass up. “You know when he gets sick and turns all white and skinny?” My body involuntarily shivers as the image surfaces in my memories. “It freaks me out.”
This time she does laugh.
“You have to answer now.” It’s my turn to bump her with my shoulder when her giggle persists. “You got out of the inanimate object question. I’m not letting you off the hook for two in a row.”
“You did that to yourself, mister.” She wags a finger at me, and I have the overwhelming urge to nip at her fingertip. I don’t, of course. That’s a level of teasing far too intimate for two people who are just friends. No matter how much I wish it could be different.
“Yes, yes”—I hold my hands up—“I insulted the Post-its.” I mock bow. “I apologize to you and the people of 3M.”
A new wave of giggles overtakes Quinn, and she falls against the cushions.
Wiping a tear from her eye, she straightens, reaches out, and taps one of my shoulders, then the other, like she’s knighting me. “You are forgiven.”
I shake my head at her ridiculousness, but my cheeks are sore from all the grinning I can’t seem to stop.
“I’ll honor your contrition by answering both questions.” She clears her throat and holds up a finger. “The inanimate object I’d get rid of is the corner of my bed. That sumbitch always tries to break my toe when I get up to pee in the middle of the night.”
I rub my pinkie toe as if feeling the phantom pain from the last time I did that myself.
“And my character is Jaws…or”—she shrugs—“well…I guess it’s all sharks, but that fear stems from Jaws. She’s my origin story.”
“She?” I arch a brow.
“Uh, yeah.” That ball of hair on her head loses the good fight at her vigorous head nod, the long red locks tumbling around her shoulders. Damn, that was sexy. “In the third movie, it’s the mama shark seeking her revenge because the good people at SeaWorld let her baby die after it snuck into the park.”
I rub a hand over my mouth, but Quinn’s narrowed eyes tell me I’m not hiding a thing. “Sorry. I’m just surprised out of all the shark movies out there, it’s the Jaws franchise that made you terrified of sharks. No offense to Spielberg, but it didn’t even make for a convincing fish.”