Page 13 of Playing Flirty

“Out with it. A month? Six months? Are you still a virgin?” Neema gasped. “Have you been lying about sex all this time? I could believe it. No one who is having sex hides behind their hands while talking about it.” She pried my fingers away from my eyes.

“Three months,” I blurted louder than intended. “And it will be three months and one week by the time he gets back.”

William, who’d finished his game without my noticing, spun around in his chair and faced us. As he crossed his arms over his wide chest, his lips tipped up in an amused smile. “So Perfect Patrick isn’t that perfect after all.”

“No one invited you into this conversation, William,” I snapped, wanting the couch to swallow me. I’d live inside it with the lost coins and other things that didn’t have a place in the world.

Dramatic? Maybe a little.

He ignored me. “But what about hand stuff… or foot stuff, if you’re into that—no judgment.”

His smug grin and deep dimple gnawed at my insides. I threw the cushion at him and with the familiar urge to one-up him said, “You’re not even in a relationship.”

He caught it and smiled wider. “I’m actually off to pick up my date.”

He stood and grabbed his keys, spinning the ring around his middle finger. Until this point, I hadn’t noticed that, instead of his usual oversized hoodie and pajama pants, he wore black jeans with a fitted T-shirt that—and here’s the shocker—was ironed. His tan, sculpted arms took me by surprise.

Noticing my eyes on his biceps, he flexed. He ran a hand through his black hair, but it did nothing in the way of taming it.

“Poor woman,” I sniped.

“Oh, don’t pity her. She’ll be having a really, really good night.”

I scrunched my face in disgust, and he replied with a cocky wink before leaving.

He was the most insufferable person who had ever existed.

The next game night took forever to come around. It was Claire’s turn, and she chose one of my favorites: Balderdash.

Apparently, William’s date had bailed on him so we had the pleasure of having him rain on our parade by “reluctantly”joining our game. One day he’d admit he enjoyed it, but today was not that day.

“What is the definition of the word ‘spifflicated’?” Lincoln asked, scratching the dark stubble on his cheek while he waited for us to write down our made-up definitions.

Lincoln was a genius, and playing this game with him was always ultraembarrassing because, nine times out of ten, he knew the actual answer.

We scribbled our meanings, and something weird in my peripheral vision caught my attention—William’s dimple was on show. He was smiling, and I couldn’t figure out why.

I slid my sheet toward Lincoln. He stuck it into the pile and handed me one of his mother’s homemade nankhatai cookies before shuffling the answer sheets.

Pushing his glasses up his straight nose, his expression in a perfect poker face, Lincoln read the first card. “Spifflicated: When you’re caught in the act of pretending to be wealthier than you actually are.”

That was my answer. And I was proud of it.

He continued. “Spifflicated: Being drunk.”

Probably Shaun’s.

Lincoln pulled the next paper and pressed his lips together. The corners of his mouth twitched as he held back an obvious grin. “Spifflicated: When a woman is deprived of satisfaction and becomes crankier than usual.”

If looks could kill, William and anyone in his immediate proximity would explode into smithereens. Since that conversation, William had teased me about my love life, or the lack thereof, whenever he found an opening. It didn’t help that I knew he had a line of women always waiting on him.

Shaun gave William a shake of his head.

Claire narrowed her eyes at him. “Why are you like this?”

I’d told Claire about the conversation she’d missed, and sadly, she could relate. She’d reassured me that plenty of people go through dry spells—even after marriage.

“Fine, fine, fine.” William raised his hands in surrender.

---