Page 19 of Playing Flirty

“Thank you.” I took the controller, trying not to think about my feet on William’s lap. Or on a pillow. But the pillow was on William’s lap.

From the corner of my eye, I spotted his dangerous smirk, and his eyes dipping down to his lap for a split second. “What?” I asked, ready for the attack, preparing for the real William to reappear.

He turned his attention to the game and mumbled, “Your feet aren’t quite as hairy as I imagined they’d be.”

The loudest guffaw poured out of me. Even at my own expense, I enjoyed the hobbit reference, but mostly I enjoyed how, in this moment where everything felt upside down, that one comment made me feel normal.

A sense of calmness washed over me, and I almost forgot everything that had happened less than an hour ago.

After a few minutes of playing in comfortable silence—and William’s gaze still focused on the screen—he sniffed the air. “Why am I smelling curry?”

“That’s racist,” I deadpanned.

“What?” He stopped the game and stared at me through wide, dark eyes. “No, I literally meant that I was smelling curry. I’m not trying to—”

A peal of laughter broke through the seriousness I had tried to feign.

His face relaxed, and he shook his head. “Not funny.”

I was surprised by my own laughter. Gaming was all the distraction I’d needed. “There’s butter chicken—oh, and ramen—in the bag I dropped over there. It’s unwanted and untouched, much like I am. You’re welcome to it.”

“I want it.” He dropped his controller and shifted my feet off his lap before standing. “Do you?”

Now that my stomach had released the tension, it grumbled. “Maybe a little ramen.”

While he heated the food, my phone rang, but it was too far away and getting up was not an option.

William picked it up and smiled at the screen. “It’s ‘Dearest Mummy.’”

My cheeks burned. “She saved it that way!”

“You know,” he said, ignoring my outstretched hand, “I’ve always wondered what kind of person raised you.”

“Go ahead.” I shrugged.

My mother would love this.

He slid his finger across the screen of my phone, which looked like a toy in his large hands.

“Hello, Rose’s dearest mummy.” He smiled, his dimple making an appearance again.

“Hello, young man. You have beautiful black eyes,” my mother responded, unconcerned with the stranger answering my phone.

William giggled. He actually giggled.

When he was close enough, I snatched my phone from his hand. “Hi, Mom.”

“Who was that?” Her eyebrows raised. Her hair stood in all directions, and I assumed the blanketed lump next to her was my sleeping father.

“William, Shaun’s brother,” I said. “What’s up, Mom? You usually give me a warning before calling. Is everything okay?”

“Ah, William—the mean one,” she responded.

From across the room, William’s eyes widened as he mouthed the word “mean.” I narrowed my eyes in his direction, and he failed to suppress a smile.

“Anyway,” she continued, “I had a dream about you. You had blue hair, and it looked amazing. You should absolutely dye it. You’d have to strip your majestic black hair within an inch of its life, but I think it would be worth it.”

“I’ll consider it,” I said with a smile, and when she was quiet, I added, “Mom, is that it?” My mother’s dreams were often lengthy and descriptive. I’d read novels shorter than them.

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