Page 22 of A Little Broken

My teeth dig into the inside of my bottom lip. Am I a perk? A groupie? It’s what he’s really asking. What I asked first before he turned the table on me. He wants to know if I’m planning to put out tonight. And if I’m being honest, the answer isprobably. It isn’t only because he’s hot. It isn’t only because he whisked me away on his motorcycle and bought me dinner. It isn’t only because it’s my birthday and I’m a sucker for a solid hookup with no strings attached. It’s because I hate what ifs and missed opportunities more than anything else in the world. Love me orhate me, but if I only get to live once, I have no problem making reckless decisions because there’s nothing worse than living with regret. I should know. I’ve done it for years.

“No answer, Birthday Girl?” he prods.

“Depends on how the rest of the night goes,” I reply, “but I think you already know that.”

“Are you saying I have expectations about how tonight will go?”

“I’m saying you’re a rockstar who’s used to getting what he wants.”

“And what do I want?”

Me.

With a shrug, I take another bite of my burger.

“All right, Miss Know-it-all, since you know me so well, throw me a bone. What’s your favorite food?”

I lift my burger as if to say, Exhibit A. “Burgers.”

He chuckles. “Really?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. Favorite color?”

“Black.”

His eyes fall to his black T-shirt, and he cocks his head. “Let me guess. Your favorite dessert is a chocolate shake?”

“Nailed it,” I quip.

He reaches for his napkin, wipes his fingers, then leans back in the booth, his gaze never leaving mine. He probably thinks I’m being a bitch by refusing to play his game and tell him something about myself, but there’s a reason I won’t play. Because with a guy like him, I have a feeling one game could easily lead to two, and that’s against the rules, er, rule, since I only have one.

“You’re a pretty little liar. I’ll give you that much,” he murmurs.

“Who says I’m lying?”

“So you always happen to want what’s right in front of you?”

I lift my shoulder again. “Maybe.”

“Okay, favorite television show?” He lifts his finger. “Wait. You look more like a reader than a television show kind of girl. What’s your favorite book?”

I keep my expression on lockdown, despite my internal flinch at how hard he hit the nail on the head. “Who says I’m a reader?”

“Closet reader,” he clarifies, hitting the nail on the head way more than he has any right to.

I set my burger down and brush the crumbs from my fingers before lacing them in front of me. “And what gives you that impression?”

“You seem like you’re someone who likes to keep things close to the chest.”

“Yet here you are, prying like a seasoned expert.”

His low chuckle makes my insides twist. “Or maybe just a kindred spirit. You gonna answer me?”

I could lie again. I could give him a bullshit answer. But something inside me clangs to give him the truth. As if the promise of never needing to see him again brings freedom with it. The freedom to be honest. To let my walls down, even if it’s only for one night.

Wouldn’t that be an interesting experience.

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