Page 65 of Flaunt

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I laugh again, enjoying the easiness of this conversation.Thank God things aren’t weird between us.

Banks: Do you have any plans today?

Me: Aren’t you supposed to be working?

Banks: Stop reminding me.

Me: I’m doing laundry so I don’t have to sleep in your shirt again, since that really seemed to bother you.

Banks: Really—it didn’t.

My stomach burns so hot that I shift on the bed.

Me: Seemed like it did … in a couple of different ways.

I’m poking the bear. I’m doing it, and I’m not even sure I want to take it there—to why he essentially walked away from me.

Banks: So I take it you’re pissy about last night?

Me: Pissy? No.

Banks:

Me: I’m just making damn sure I don’t put us in that situation again. Your shirt will be washed, dried, and in the laundry room when you get home.

Banks: That’s a shame.

What?

I type furiously.

Me: I thought you said you don’t play games, Mr. Carmichael?

Banks: I don’t.

Me:

Banks: If I were playing games with you, you would’ve lost that shirt and been on your back in the hallway.

Me: Sounds like a fun game.

Banks: It would be. It could be.

Me: It should be.

Banks: Except you would’ve woken up this morning thinking I’m just like the other guys you hang out with.

Me: So?

Banks: So that’s offensive.

“Offensive?” I mutter, typing my response three times before I get it right.

Me: I wasn’t pissy about last night, but now I am.

Banks: Good for you. My mom might stop by today. She threatened to go through all my cabinets if I didn’t return her yellow bowl. But I don’t have it. So if she comes and starts poking around, laugh at her.

“Ugh,” I groan.

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