Page 42 of Betting on the Brainiac

“I need to—”

She closes her hand around my wrist and pulls me forward, as if I didn’t say anything, and I realize she probably didn’t hear me. “I can’t believe a hottie like you is still solo.”

A hottie like me?

I let her tow me over as it sinks in: Madison doesn’t recognize me.

Chapter Sixteen

Oliver

We’ve almost reached thetable, and I lean over to tell her. “Madison, it’s—”

“Mission accomplished. Subject secured,” she says, and it’s loud enough for me to hear, but I’m not sure all the women did. She leans forward so they can hear her better. “Should I inspect the goods?”

The women cheer or whoop, and my eyes widen. Inspect the goo—

But Madison has already moved behind me before I can retreat. Her heels make her tall enough to rest her chin on my shoulder, but she uses the decreased gap to talk close enough to my ear that I can hear her.

“This is a routine I do for the ladies sometimes. It’s meant to be fun, but you do not have to do this. I’ll need to touch you in a flirty way, but it’s all for show. If I make you uncomfortable,flash a thumbs up, and the routine ends. You can bail now, and I’ll play it off in a fun way. Do you want to stay?”

The vibration of her voice raises goose bumps down my back and both my arms. This is insane, but “touch in a flirty way”? There’s no way I’m not watching this play out. When I tell her it’s me, she can start connecting the dots and see me as something besides her cat helper tenant.

I nod.

She steps back to squeeze both of my shoulders in a three-second massage before she pops her head around me to announce, “Excellent width, well-muscled.”

That’s true. I am. I’ve kept the lean swimmer’s build I developed in high school by running but also doing push-ups when I get stuck on a coding glitch. I find a lot of glitches.

She walks around my left side and squeezes my forearm, rests her hand on my sleeve, and announces, “Strong arms, good quality jacket, and he clearly dresses well.”

I’m glad I never took the blazer off.

She holds a hand toward my hair and tilts her head in question.May I?

I nod. I’m glad Matt made me keep my appointment at his sister’s salon yesterday. He’d told her to “clean up Shaggy-doo,” and she’d tsked when she’d seen me, informing me six months was too long between haircuts.

“Great hair,” Madison says as she runs her fingers lightly over one side. “Excellent cut, product but not overkill.”

Every strand that ripples beneath her touch sends a corresponding spark down my spine.

“Biceps!” one of the women calls.

“No, pecs,” another one says.

“I’ve got you covered, ladies,” Madison says. “If you have no objections?”

She’s looking at the eyeholes of my mask as she asks, but there’s not enough light for her to realize she’s not making actual eye contact. I give another nod, and there’s more hooting from the women, egging her on. I feel like a contestant on a cheap reality show, and . . . I don’t hate it.

Her hands come up and she drums her fingertips lightly against my chest, while she gives the women an exaggerated nod of approval. She’s being very intentional in the way she touches me. She’s keeping her contact gentle, as if she’s trying to either help me feel comfortable or make it clear that this isn’t meant to be seductive.

I’m playing a different game now, where the goal is to see how long it takes her to figure out it’s me.

I let out a half smile and open one side of my blazer, an invitation she accepts with the women rooting her on, sliding her hand across my chest. The upturn of her lips says she approves.

Like I said, I do a lot of pushups.

“Good pecs,” she tells the women, who cheer again. They’d cheer for anything vaguely upright and male at this point, so I don’t let it go to my head.

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