Page 24 of End Game
I place my computer on the table next to my drink. “Can’t you just forget you saw that?”
“What on earth would a woman like you be doing at a sex therapy class? What even is that? Is it kinky? Should I sign up? Is it like a giant orgy? If you’re into that?—”
“No, I’m not into orgies,” I chuckle, rolling my eyes.
“Such a shame.”
“A lot of thought went into that,” I note. “Does this mean you’ve thinking about me, Branch Best?”
“A hell of a lot more than I should be, Layla James Miller.”
A large lump takes residence in my throat as I try to play off his comeback as the trait of a player and not for face value. That would get me in trouble I know better than to get into.
“While we’re on the topic,” he continues, “is James your middle name or some kind of holdover from a previous marriage?”
“Holdover. I was married when I was eighteen to this world-renowned rock star that visited Chicago. When we divorced, right after he left me with our triplets, I decided to keep his last name as a middle name.”
His jaw drops.
“Of course it’s a middle name,” I laugh. “It was my mom’s maiden name.”
“I was wracking my brain for rock stars with the last name James,” he teases. “Okay. We can move on now.”
“No, no way. Now I want to know why your name is Branch. There must be story behind that.”
He shrugs. “Not really. My great-grandfather was a Baptist minister. When his wife had my grandfather, they named him Branch because he was a ‘branch,’” he says, using air quotes, “that would spread the word of God to the rest of the world.”
“That’s . . . fun,” I offer.
“Sure it is. I’m sure they’re super proud of their great-grandson who has only spread the word ‘God’ mid-orgasm.”
Bursting into laughter, I lean my head back to the perfectly clear sky. “You could always trade in your pads for one of those black outfits with the white collar,” I say, wiping tears away from my eyes. “I can only imagine those sermons.”
“I bet every seat would be taken.”
“Oh, I bet you’re right,” I agree. “I’d fight someone for a seat.”
“As long as I have a face, you have a seat.”
Oh.
My.
God.
His smile straddles the line between mischief and debauchery the way my legs want to be straddled over his face. It’s a wicked, taunting kind of gesture that puddles me.
“What has gotten into you today?” I ask.
“Sometimes I wake up a little spirited.”
“Spirited. Got it,” I say, settling into my chair.
“Sex therapy. Go,” he commands.
“I haven’t gone,” I say, unable to look away from him. “Poppy has a friend that goes because her husband had an affair and she wanted to feel sexy again.”
“So why did she giveyouthe card?”
