“You need to give less fucks.”
I offer an exaggerated shrug and roll my lips together as the alcohol races straight to my bloodstream.
“It’s like this.” Theo reaches out one toned arm, grabs my stool, and tugs it around the small round table. He turns us both. Bringing us face to face, so the outside of my knees presses up against his inner thighs. That spicy citrus scent wraps around me. The urge to lean forward and nuzzle into his neck hits me like a ton of bricks.
We’re too close.
But he doesn’t seem to notice. He just turns and lays his hands flat on his well-built thighs, all ten fingers stretched wide. “Pretend you only have ten fucks to give—”
“Oh, I think I remember this math problem from second grade.”
He ignores my jibe and forges ahead. “And when you run out of fucks, you’re spent. Wrung out. Stretched too thin.”
My eyes roll. “Good god.”
“But you’re out here giving one fuck to your mom about the career you already know you want, giving one to Summer over some slight that she doesn’t seem to know exists, giving at least a few to your husband who makes you miserable.”
He directs a pointed look at me that says he knows that story too. I shrink a little.
“I just watched you give me a fuck over that story, like I’m judging you when I’m not. So, we’re at . . .” We both peer down at his hands. “You have four fucks left to give and then you’re burnt out.” He’s on a roll now. “I’m pretty sure you gave that bartender a fuck when he had that whole judgy, sour expression on his face after we ordered another round. I mean, come on, Winter. That guy? He just dropped an entire tray of glasses. You’ve only got three now. Why’d you waste one on him?”
I sigh. “This is the stupidest math I’ve ever encountered. And me giving people fucks . . . the way you’re saying it makes me sound . . .”
His dark brows rise. “Sound what?”
“It sounds like I’m just out fucking people willy-nilly.” I laugh. I have to. “Please don’t say anything about me giving my dad fucks for abandoning me. I’ll never recover.”
“Don’t need to. You just admitted it yourself.”
He folds another finger under and as I watch him, I realize I’m mirroring him. Hands splayed on the expanse of bare skin between my stockings and the edge of my dress, fingers curling every time he ticks off a fuck.
Two fucks stare back at me, one of which sports a simple gold band. I wear it so the diamond Rob bought me doesn’t rip through my medical gloves.
I glance up at Theo. He’s watching me so carefully. His skin is so smooth, so tan. His features so dark. His persona so . . . fun.
The antithesis of everything in my life.
And suddenly I give a fuck about what he thinks of me too.
I fold another digit down without saying a word. He watches me do it, but his warm hand covers mine, a brush of his calloused fingers on my thigh as he reaches for my ring finger and pulls it out flat.
“Don’t give me that, Winter. I don’t need it. I’m not judging you. And you’re only two fucks away from bottoming out.”
Bottoming out. The inanest pairing of words sends a zing of arousal through my body. Bottoming out. Said with a light growl in his voice while he leans into me so intimately. I cross my legs and squeeze to dull the ache between them.
“God.” I run my hands through my hair, pushing it back tight and away from my face. “Are you telling me you don’t give a fuck what people think of you?”
He shrugs and cants his head in my direction. “I try not to.”
He’s so close, all tequila and tangerines and deep, chocolatey eyes. “I saw you tonight. The way you went rigid when you got called a lady-killer.”
His gaze bounces between my eyes, and god, I feel seen. My skin itches under the pressure of his gaze. No one ever looks at me this closely. This discerningly.
“Changing your stripes isn’t always easy.”
“I think the saying is literally that a tiger doesn’t change its stripes.”
His tongue presses down on his bottom lip as he gives his head a minute shake. “Then let’s call it a Dalmatian changing his spots. They’re born without them, you know.”
“So, you’re not a total manwhore?”
His mouth twists. “I’m outgrowing that phase. But people see what they want. Imagine if I gave them all my fucks over that when I know deep down what kind of man I am?”
Man. Yes. Man.
My brain stutter-steps on that. Because Theo is all man, all masculine lines, dark swirling colors, gentle touches—gentlemanly behavior.
Okay, he’s charming as hell.
“When I didn’t win at the end of this season, I made it a goal to redouble my focus. Grow up a notch. That’s why I’m here, training with Rhett and Summer. More workouts, less . . . play. All work and no play makes Theo a dull boy.”
Play. Does every word this man says have to sound sexual? I swear he isn’t even trying, but his words scrape against my skin like the edge of his teeth might, the way his stubble might. There isn’t a single dull thing about Theo Silva.
In fact, he might as well be a gigantic neon sign, flashing at me to back away. Because people have hurt me, my capacity for trust is practically nil. And yet . . .
“I could really use some play.” My knee bumps into his as I turn to him, an idea blossoming in my mind.
A very bad idea.
“Less fucks and more play. I like this strategy for you.”
The way his lips part when he says fuck has my stomach clenching and my inhibitions flapping in the wind. What if I let go of them and turned my brain off for a bit? What if I did something just for me? Something that feels good.
God knows Rob has never been effective at making me feel good. Not the way it appears in movies or sounds in books. When the woman’s heart races and her skin prickles just because a man is looking at her.
Theo looks at me like that. Like I might be his next meal.
“Maybe what I really need is more fucks?” Oof. That sounded a lot cooler in my tequila brain than it does out loud.
“You only get ten for the purpose of the example.”
I bite down on my bottom lip. “That’s not what I meant.”
He must see it on my face because he rears back, full lips parting even as his eyes smolder. “Are you propositioning me?”
I scoff and blink away. “No.”
He says nothing and when I drag my attention back to him, I confess, “Okay, maybe. Just for fun. I want to know what that’s like.” An image of Rob pops up in my head and I toss it away. He’s not allowed here in this moment. I need to be myself. I need to be free of him if I’m going to do this. “I don’t think I know what it’s like to be properly fucked.”
Amusement and shock war on his face. “You’ve officially had too much to drink.”
“I have not. You’re just using that as an excuse. If you aren’t interested, just be direct. I’m a doctor. I understand how the biology of attraction works. You can’t force it. I get it.”
When I glance back up, the expression on his face is primal. He’s beautiful, and I’m instantly struck by the realization that I’m an idiot. This man is out of my league. He’s too good looking. Too experienced.
“You know what? Forget I said anything. I’ve got this whole uptight spinster thing happening and I don’t blame you for—”
“Winter. I’d have properly fucked you in the back room of that gas station if you’d asked me.”
I freeze at his words.
“I’m not going to sit here and pretend I haven’t been thinking about it all night.” His eyes glaze over and peruse my body in a knowing way, like he can see my skin flush and my nipples pebble. His legs squeeze in on mine. Trapping me. “That dress could be so easily tugged up. But . . .” His head tilts down at the glass on the table beside us. “We consumed a lot of tequila. I don’t want you to regret anything.”
Regret? I look him over like I would a patient and wonder if a single woman has ever regretted fucking Theo Silva. It seems highly improbable.
And I want to find out.
For science.
So I toss back the rest of my shot and pull a pen out of my purse. Flipping the coaster over to the blank side, I write:
I, Winter, do legally swear that I am not too drunk to . . .
I glance up at him. “What are you worried about? I don’t have orgasms, so alcohol intake won’t matter.”
He blinks once, slow and methodical, those thick, dark lashes wiping away a flash of annoyance on his perfect bone structure. “Consent, Tink. I’m worried about consent. The rest isn’t an issue.” His voice drops to a low growl. “You’d get there with me. I’d make sure of it.”
Heat lashes at my cheeks, spills down my throat, and washes over my chest. He’s so damn confident. Tequila or not, talking brazenly like this is new to me. So, instead of arguing with him, I use a shaky hand to finish the sentence:
Consent.
When I peek up, our eyes lock. I’m practically panting and he’s just sitting there, vibrating with sexual energy, fingers clenched around the edge of the table.
I bite at the inside of my cheek and drop his gaze before I sign my name.
Winter Hamilton.