I nod as I swallow, unfamiliar with being on the receiving end of this particular conversation. “Probably.”
She stares me down. I stare back. Her eyes slowly—meaningfully—drop to my plate and then slide to the empty table next to us.
“Does this mean I shouldn’t expect any naked selfies later?” I ask. “Or even selfies of you in that bikini?”
“I think you get plenty of selfie texts as it is.”
As if to prove her point, my phone buzzes near my water bottle and London smiles, dimples flashing victoriously.
Planting my elbows on the table, I lean in, giving her my most earnest smile. “Look, Fresno—”
“Fresno. Amsterdam. You’re hilarious.”
“—I’m not going to make it weird. But all this worry about it being weird is going to make it weird. We’re in the same tiny restaurant. We’re grown-ups. It’s just food.” I pull a chip free and pop it in my mouth, chewing thoughtfully before saying, “Well, technically it’s just food with a guy who saw you naked a couple nights ago. But if you really want me to move, I will.”
She blinks away, and I can see a tiny flash of guilt cross her features. I’ve seen London interact with other people—she’s bubbly, she cracks jokes and wears a constant smile—so I know this shell she’s built around herself is really about guys and romance, not because she’s an asshole.
At least, not really.
Looking back at me, she narrows her eyes a little as she studies me, and then bursts out laughing. “You have a giant black bean stuck to your front tooth.”
Now that she’s pointed it out, I can feel it. I grin wider, all teeth. “I have to do something to reduce my attractiveness to the ladies. It can’t be full steam all the time.”
London giggles at this as she takes a bite of her fries. “You’re insane.”
I lean in, and she laughs harder. “Can you believe this is the face of a man who, two nights ago, happily gave you four orgasms?”
She looks up at me, mouth straightening as the memory of our night together causes her cheeks to flush. “Three.”
I pull the bean off my tooth and lean back in my chair, staring at her. Waiting. I remember each of her orgasms distinctly—the sharp cry one, the gasping one, the oh-fuck-oh-my-fucking-God one, and the sweaty, unintelligible begging one—so I know she is full of shit.
“Okay, maybe four,” she says with a little wave of her hand. And then she looks back up at me, brows drawn. “What’s your point?”
I shake my head. “I don’t have a point. I—”
“I mean, seriously.” She’s flustered now, blushing hotly. “What is your point? What is the point of”—she gestures up and down my body—“of all this? The fancy suit and shiny shoes and the fucking hair.”
“I just got off work!” I bite back a laugh. “Wait, what is the point of my hair?”
“And that smile? You’re . . . just . . .” She digs around for the right word, finally coming up with “absurd.” And I don’t know what it is about that word, but it thrills me. Seeing her pretend to be disgusted with me makes me oddly giddy.
“I don’t think I know what you mean by ‘absurd,’?” I goad her.
“You’re banging different women every night—”
“Not every night.”
And here we go. Composed London is unraveling. “Did you always want to be the stereotype?”
“The straight-A, water polo player turned pre-law? Yeah, rough path. Scare me straight already.”
She leans to the side, scanning the parking lot. “Do you drive a Hummer?”
“I drove you home in my Prius,” I remind her.
She snorts. “You had a condom in your pocket.”
“I wouldn’t judge you if you had a condom in your pocket,” I volley back.
Her eyes narrow. I have a point and she knows it.
“And I would have been happy to play video games all night,” I add.
She aggressively shoves a fry into her mouth. “You had nothing but Sriracha in your fridge,” she says around it.
“There was also celery and string cheese. And I made you come four times. Four. Do you even bother to do that with your box of toys beneath your bed?”
London chews on her straw, and then says, “What makes you think I have a box of toys under my bed?”
And I swear to God, she’s blushing even more hotly now.
“You deny it?” I ask quietly.
She completely leaps over my question. “You banged someone else last night.”
“Technically, I didn’t.”
She laughs. “So technically Aubrey did give you car head.”
She didn’t—she sucked on my neck and reached for my dick until I gently pried her hand away and walked her to her doorstep. But London’s already got her mind made up, so why bother?
“You didn’t even care that I called you by the wrong name all night!” I fire back. “Why does it matter to you whether I did or didn’t get car head?”