Page 55 of Nine Months to Love
“Tell me something,” I say, spearing a piece of asparagus. “When you were planning this whole yacht-dinner-seduction thing, did you consider that I might say no?”
“Every minute since I sent the dress.”
“But you did it anyway.”
“Hope is a dangerous thing for men like me.” He takes a sip of his champagne—the real stuff, I notice. Wonder if he needs it tocalm his nerves. Surely not, right? “But try as I might, I’m full of it lately.”
The Wellington disappears bite by bite. Stefan drains his glass, refills it, drains it again. Meanwhile, we keep dancing around everything that matters. He tells me about the first time he tried to cook for himself at boarding school and nearly burned down the dormitory kitchen. I tell him about the time I accidentally mixed up two patient files and almost inseminated the wrong woman before Camille caught my mistake.
We laugh. We drink. The candles burn lower.
And neither of us says a damn word about Mikayla in the basement or his mother or the fact that I’m carrying his child while he plots to steal my clinic.
Finally, I can’t take it anymore.
“This is nice.” I set down my fork. “Really nice. But it’s not why we’re here.”
Stefan goes still across from me.
“I appreciate the dinner and the lights and the ocean and all,” I continue, “but this isn’t a date, Stefan. You promised that you would answer my questions honestly.”
“You haven’t asked me a question yet.”
“Touché.” I twist the napkin in my lap. “I guess I’ve enjoyed this night more than I should have. Between being lied to and kidnapped, I’ve been worn thin. It was nice to have some fun.”
“Having a serious conversation doesn’t mean we can’t still have fun.” He leans back in his chair, studying me in that way thatmakes me feel naked even when I’m fully clothed. “Let’s make this interesting. Let’s play a game of truth and dare.”
“Are you serious? Are we twelve years old and at sleepaway camp?”
“If twelve-year-olds can do it, it should be easy.” He tops off his champagne. “Unless you’re scared…?”
I know what he’s doing, but I take the bait anyway. “I’m not scared of you.”
“Prove it.”
I should say no. This is exactly the kind of manipulation I swore I wouldn’t fall for. But the alternative is sitting here in awkward silence or launching into an interrogation that will ruin whatever fragile peace we’ve found.
“Fine. But we need a rule so you can’t avoid the truth by just picking dare every time.”
“Agreed. You can’t pick either truth or dare more than three times in a row.”
“Deal.”
Stefan gestures at me. “Ladies first.”
I start easy. “Truth or dare?”
“Truth.”
“What’s your favorite color?”
He blinks. “That’s your question?”
“I’m warming up. Answer it.”
“Green. Like the ocean right before a storm.” He doesn’t hesitate before asking, “Truth or dare?”
“Truth.”
