Page 58 of Playing Games

I let my smirk grow, leaning closer like I’m about to share a well-kept secret. “Oh, don’t worry, Lex. We’ll find plenty of ways to keep ourselves entertained.”

She rolls her eyes, but I don’t miss the way her smile softens, like she’s secretly looking forward to whatever chaos I bring next.

We feel officially together. Maybe not in the conventional sense, but even in secret, it feels like we’re building something real. And whatever this is between us, it’s not a gift I’m willing to squander.

Thursday, June 26th

Lexi

The Ferris Research Lab is quiet tonight, but despite the calm, my head is a thunderstorm of swirling thoughts, every single one of them centered on the one man with whom I’ve been spending all my free time.

Stolen moments, secret kisses, and nights spent wrapped up in each other’s arms, the past six days with Blake have been a whirlwind.

The fact that I’ve managed to keep up with some of my normal routine at all is something I attribute entirely to his obligations to the football team since he can’t be texting, chasing, or sexing me when he’s there.

When he’s Blue 42’ing, I’m in the lab. Though, I admit, I’ve spent more time dissecting the way Blake makes me feel than I have obsessing over the microscopic details within the algorithms in my dissertation test app. And given how hard I’ve worked for this PhD up until now, that’s…terrifying.

At least, itshouldbe.

I should be fighting, running, pulling away. Instead, I’m consumed.

On Monday and Tuesday, I adjusted my usual lab routine to his practice schedules just so we would have more time together. On Wednesday, I skipped the lab altogether so we could go to the Bronx Zoo and dinner afterward.

We haven’t had actual sex yet—even if I’ve tried valiantly to convince him we should—and yet, I’m giving him nuclear-level energy. It’s the antithesis of everything I know myself for.

It’sboy craziness, and for the first time in my twenty-five years, I truly understand the term.

The Blake Boden Experiment app—the one I fondly namedPolarize—of course, continues to support the mental lapse. In the last seven runs, it’s yet to produce a result with anything under ninety-eight percent viability of our opposites attracting.

My phone buzzes on the desk, pulling me out of my recycled thoughts. Unfortunately for my dalliance with overconsumption, the sender only adds to the problem.

Blake Boden: Just finished weight training. I’m starving. Thinking I might eat you for dinner.

A blush creeps up my cheeks as I quickly type back a response.

Me: I’m at the lab. A little busy.

I’m not busy with anything but Blake-centric pet projects, clearly, but he doesn’t need to know that. Pretty sure, actually, that’s data Ineedto keep to myself.

Blake Boden: I could come to the lab and enjoy my meal there…

My fingers hover over the screen as memories of the night we did a lot of dirty somethings in the chem lab down the hall flood my mind. The warmth of his mouth paradoxed by the cold of the lab table underneath. The sureness of his tongue and his hands and his confidence, intertwined with the danger of being discovered at any moment. It was romancelandia-level fantasy at its highest form—and yet, it was just that: fantasy. And right now, I want real.

The smell of Blake’s things and the feel of his bed and the opportunity to wake up there, drugged with exhaustion from being together all night in the morning.

Not to mention, risking Dr. Blevin or someone else walking in on us while we’re right in the middle ofgetting to know each otherisn’t exactly a calculated risk. It’s garish and unnecessary, and my practical side knows it.

Me: I’ll meet you at your place. Be there in 30 minutes or so.

Blake Boden: I’ll see you soon, Lexi Lou.

I catch myself smiling at his use of my nickname and shake my head over my own ridiculousness as I start gathering my things to leave. I’m eager and overtly peppy in the most disgusting of simple ways.

The lab door swings open, and Ginger strides in, her arms full of papers and her hair tied up in a messy bun. She smiles at the sight of me and charges dead ahead, freezing my hands mid-reach for my bag.

It’s painfully obvious what she’s here for, and it isn’t the computers.

Without saying a word, she drops a newspaper onto the table beside my bag with a flick of her wrist, settling her free hand on her hip. “Oh, Lexi Winslow,” she crows, her voice on sublet from Ricky Ricardo. “You have some ’splainin’ to do.”

---