Page 68 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
I brace myself.
And then . . . laughter.
Not polite laughter.
Nope.
This is full-bodied, victorious, downright evil laughter.
“You’re calling me with a tone that makes me think you’re about to ask for one of my kidneys and . . .” She laughs again.
I roll my eyes. “Glad you find my suffering funny.”
“Oh, I do,” she says, still laughing. “So much.”
I rub my temple. “Olivia?—”
“No, no,” she cuts me off, still cackling like a villain. “I just love that you—Lucian Crawford, Mr. I Always Win—are finally losing.”
I scowl. “I’m not losing.”
“Oh?” she muses. “Because it kind of sounds like you’re begging me to adopt your dog.”
I grit my teeth. “It’s not begging. And I’m definitely not giving you my dog.”
“It’s a little begging.”
“Liv.”
She hums, drawing this out like she’s enjoying every single second of my misery. “I don’t know. What’s in it for me?”
I smirk. “My eternal gratitude?”
“Ha. Try again.”
“A dinner?”
“Getting warmer.”
I pause, then throw it out there just to fuck with her.
“A date?”
She sputters. “A DATE?”
I grin. “You heard me.”
“You’re trying to convince me to do something for you with a date?” She laughs again, and I can’t tell if she’s horrified or entirely too entertained.
“I’m glad you’re laughing at my disgrace.”
“This is so funny,” she states like she’s taking notes for later. “So . . . how much does it pay to take care of the mighty pup?”
I arch a brow. “So you’re considering it.”
A pause.
Then . . . “Maybe?” That sounds like music in my ears. “If . . . and this is a big if, though. If I do agree, I’ll need a signed contract, plus weekly foot massages, and, oh, maybe your left kidney.”
