Page 35 of Wanna Play A Game?
I cross my arms. “You going to stay up all night?”
He closes his eyes again. “Yep.”
I swallow. There’s no way I can sleep with him in here, awake.
“Or maybe I’ll tie you down so I know I can fall asleep without you doing something stupid.” He glances at me through half-lidded eyes.
“I won’t leave.”
“Then why did you check if I was awake?”
“I was going to draw a mustache on you. Why else?” I smile sarcastically at him.
He cracks a grin. “Oh. Got a thing for mustaches?” He acts so easygoing. For a second, the tension between us seems far away.
“Gross, no.” I cross my arms. “Hate them.”
For a second, there’s an awkward silence. We both sit stiffly. I want to bury my head back under the covers.
Then Miles says, “Gross? What are you talking about? Surely not the glorious patches of manly hair.” He sits up more in his seat. “A landing strip so one knows where to plant a beautiful pussy, if you will.” He smirks. “Perfection.”
“I thinkyouhave a thing for them.” I arch my eyebrow.
He chuckles. “I sure do.”
We sit in silence for a bit. C’mon Cali. You’re supposed to be getting him to let his guard down. I glance around the room again, seeing the guitar leaning against the wall. “You play guitar?”
“Used to. Not so much anymore.” He runs a hand through his hair.
“Can I hear something?”
Miles stiffens. His toned body seems to have frozen.
I swallow. “It’s fine. You don’t have to.”
Miles stares at the guitar.
Awesome. Now I’ve ruined whatever temporary truce we have.
“No, it’s fine. I’ll play something.” He says it like he’s punishing himself.
“No, really, I…”
Miles picks it up and goes back to his seat. He strums around a bit, tuning it. Then he starts playing. It takes him a bit to get into it, but it sounds like Flamenco music.
I sit back and watch the man in front of me. The longer he plays, the more he gets caught up in it, melting into the sounds. He starts humming along to the songs. I don’t know them, but they sound Spanish and maybe a bit French. His big hands strum over the strings, playing them quickly and expertly. His fingers are long and tan and gorgeous. I can’t stop looking.
I’m not sure how long he plays. When he finally stops and looks up and sees me, a flush runs up his neck.
“Sorry,” he mutters.
“That was great. What music was that?”
He names a band I’ve never heard of. I nod. Miles quickly puts the guitar away. He’s clearly uncomfortable.
The silence eats at me. I say, “I don’t know anyone who plays. But at Christmas every year, we’d play a guitar holiday track. I always loved it.”
Miles walks up to the bed, and I clutch the sheets tighter around me.
