Page 41 of The Check Down

“Yep, that’s what I’m going with.”

She fidgets with the hem of her sweater for a moment, then pops up from her seat. “I’m sure you can come up with a better one than that.”

Her evasiveness turns me into a dog with a bone. I press my lips together, pretending to mull it over, but then shake my head. “Nope. I’m happy with my original question.”

She wrings her hands and chews on the inside of her cheek, but she keeps her attention averted.

“Remember the terms of this game that you shook on, professor. You must answer truthfully.”

“Fine.” She crosses her arms, and this time, I let myself peek at the perfect breasts this defensive position accentuates. God, what I’d give to get my hands on those—

“It’s Amethyst.”

I blink to keep myself from blurting out something that’ll clue her into my thoughts. “What’s amethyst?”

She huffs, her expression going flat. “My middle name.”

“Is Amethyst?”

“Yes.”

I hold back a chuckle. “No way.”

With a grunt, she scans the empty arcade. “Way. I told you my parents love crystals. My birthday is February first, and the birthstone for February is—”

“Amethyst,” I finish for her.

“Yes.”

“Brynn Amethyst Nelson?”

“That’s me.” She gives me a weak smile.

“I need proof.”

Dubious, she studies me for a silent moment. Then she rummages through her purse. Side-eyeing me while she continues her search, she asks, “You really didn’t know?”

“How would I know?”

“You didn’t run a background check on me?” To most, her laugh might suggest she’s joking, but the tension in the sound is clear to me, and her eyes tell a different story. “Here you are, Mr. Multimillionaire,” she says, yanking her wallet from her purse, “letting a poor college instructor nobody move into your home after only knowing her a couple weeks.” She’s embarrassed and lashing out.

She holds her license out, but I don’t take it. Instead, I make a colossal dumbass mistake and step closer. Her sweet floral scent—the one I’ve caught whiffs of around the apartment for the past few days—fills my nose. Fuck, this close, it’s hard not to wantto trace the smooth skin of her jaw around to her nape and pull her in. But I settle for a gentle chin grip.

“Hey.” When she zeroes in on me, I continue. “You remember that night at the Peabody? When you told me that you trusted me?”

She nods as much as my hold allows.

“That’s a two-way street, professor. I trust you. Implicitly.”

“That’s—that’s good,” she whispers.

“It is. And we’re done playing for answers. You want to know something, just ask me. I’m an open book.”

She swallows thickly, composes herself. “What’syourmiddle name?”

“Michael.”

“When’s your birthday?”