Page 22 of Maybe You

“A person has to have a moral code, Wren,” he says solemnly.

“Sure. Silly me.”

I leave it be and unlock the door, and we head inside.

“How’s the finger?” he asks me as I’m putting my stuff away at the front desk.

I look down at the splint and shrug. “It’s whatever. The swelling’s going down, so there’s that.”

He licks icing sugar off his fingers and eyes me curiously. “You’re weirdly aloof about the whole thing.”

That gives me pause for a moment before I send him a quick look.

“I’ve had worse injuries.”

Understatement, that one, but I’ve never gotten into the habit of discussing intensely personal things with strangers.

“Are you going to elaborate?”

“You said you weren’t interested in things like that. Remember? You don’t give a shit about my job, hobbies, interests, friends, or family, unless it’s daddy issues, which, if it wasn’t clear yet, this isn’t.”

“That is the status quo. Then again, if this was how I normally do things, I would’ve already slept with you by now, so nothing about this situation really seems to follow the usual plan.”

“Is this you adapting?” I ask.

“Definitely taking a huge step out of my comfort zone. I’m not sure about adapting, though.”

“I’m so proud of you,” I say drily. “It’s like witnessing the moon landing.”

“I’d hold off on the praise. I’m new to this whole small-talk-with-somebody-I-want-to-sleep-with thing, so you might have to hold my hand through this. How exactly is this supposed to go?”

“Shouldn’t you be the one who’s better equipped for small talk out of the two of us?”

“And you came to that conclusion based on what?”

I measure him with a long look. “Aren’t you rich people all used to chatting aimlessly to each other at charity balls and fashion shows and, I don’t know, horse races?”

His eyes crinkle at the corners. “The fuck would I do at a horse race?”

“Drink expensive champagne, wear a dapper suit and a straw hat, and speak with a posh British accent while people take your picture?” I take a guess.

“Well, I sure as hell know what I won’t be doing with my Sunday. Sounds boring as fuck.”

“You’re ruining all my fantasies of what being rich is like,” I inform him as I hand him the mop.

He leans his shoulder against the wall and waggles his brows at me.

“You’ve been fantasizing about me?”

“Not you,” I say pointedly and with audible exasperation.

“Now, now, there’s no shame in it.” The grin on his face takes on a devilish edge as he pushes himself off the wall and follows me to the changing rooms. “It’s healthy. Hell, I fantasized about you just this morning. And twice last night. Plus, there was that half hour when I was taking a shower. That was a great thirty minutes. Very educational for the mind.”

He says all of that so damn casually, while my whole face feels like it’s on fire by the time he’s done.

The stupidest part? It’s exciting.

I don’t know if it makes me shallow or what, but nobody ever talks to me like this. Nobody’s ever said things like that to me. And yeah, what-the-fuck-ever, it’s exciting. I’ll just admit it to myself.

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