Page 15 of Drop Shot
I can’t help the giggle that slips out. “Oh, she is.”
“If I’m trying to impress her, what should I do?”
I take a sip of wine, thinking about what Elias could possibly bring to win over my sister.
“She loves sour gummy worms and Pokémon cards,” I supply.
His lips part. “She’s going to be my best friend.”
“I don’t know,” I hedge, swirling the wine around in the glass. “She’s a tough cookie.”
“Good thing I like cookies.”
I roll my eyes at his quip.
The wine settles slowly in my system, and I start to feel warm, more relaxed.
“I was thinking”—Elias starts once our food has been brought out and we’re a few bites in— “maybe we should draw up a contract of sorts of our own?”
“For what?”
God, this pasta is sinfully delicious. Downright decadent.
“For us,” he says, taking a bite of steak. He chews and swallows before saying more. “You know, with our rules. Like no sleeping around, our families all believing this is real, whatever else we might want to add.” He shrugs like it’s oh so easy.
“I guess we could do that.”
I suppose he has a solid point. It might be a good idea to have our rules in writing.
“It’s too bad you don’t have your trusty iPad with you tonight,” he quips. His lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile, but he fails. Elias isalwayssmiling. Even when he’s pissed on the court he still boasts a smile.
“If we have time you can pop in tonight and we can write some things down.”
“Good.” He nods in a very serious manner, tone deeper than before. “I missed Craig.”
A sound that’s a cross between a sigh and a laugh leaves me. “She’s a traitor.”
“It’s not her fault that I’m extremely lovable.” He grins across the table at me. He seems completely at ease with me, like this isn’t a fake date and we’re not going to be faking an entire relationship, and instead we’re just two friends hanging out.
I hold back another sigh.
“Lovable or giant pain in my ass? Take your pick.”
“Ah.” He clutches at his chest, long fingers splayed and showing off the silver ring he always wears on his thumb unless he’s playing tennis. “No one can wound me quite like you can, Whim.” He lowers his hand but wags his finger at me. “It’s a special talent you have.”
“Someone has to keep your incorrigible ego in check.”
He shakes his head, lips twisting in amusement.
When dinner is over, he drives me home and parks in a visitor spot.
“I don’t have to come up if you don’t want me to,” he says, but he’s already undoing his belt. “But I really would like to see Craig again.”
“And we have our own contract to write up,” I remind him.
He snaps fingers together and points at me. “I know.”
In the elevator ride up to my floor he whistles to himself. The tune doesn’t match the elevator music and I can’t place what it might be from.
