Page 20 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
Second, there’s like ten channels, so for all my clicking, I don’t manage to drum up a great Liam Neeson or Jason Statham action flick.
Instead…I end up back on the game show.
Which, I find after about five more minutes, doesn’t actually suck.
It’s weirdly intriguing.
Is it the pressure that makes the answers so bad? Or should I really start worrying about the state of education in America?
Likely both.
There’s a loud buzz on the screen and I hold my breath as the other team finally gets a chance.
The number one answer is still not up on the board.
And it’s not like the category is difficult.
I glance at Faye, see she’s watching as avidly as I am. “Is not one person on either of these teams unable to come up with tent?”
“I thought you didn’t like this show,” she says quietly, barely any rasp in the words, though she’s still pale and the dark circles under her eyes are intense.
I clench my hand at my side, resisting the urge to brush my thumb over the spots marring her skin.
“The category is Things You Bring on a Camping Trip,” I point out.
“I’m not saying I wouldn’t say tent.” Her lips twitch. “I’m just saying that if the show sucked, you wouldn’t be invested in it after five minutes.”
“So you’re a Family Feud fan?”
“I’m a whatever’s on TV or hot on social media at the moment fan. And today with my ten hospital channels, that’s Family Feud.” Her eyes flick to the TV screen at the sound of another buzz. “For the record, I would have said tent, sleeping bag, and flashlight instead of portable latrine, matches, and bug spray.” One slender shoulder lifts and drops. “Though I can see the merits of all three of those.”
“I’ll point out that matches was the only one of those guesses to make it in the top five.”
“That’s because the number four answer is pillow.” There’s that sass again, the adorable little smirk that has a hand reaching into my chest and wrapping around my heart.
Or maybe it’s skipped my chest all together and gone straight for my cock instead.
Either. Both.
I lean closer, hand settling on the bed near her hip. Not touching her, but giving in to the urge to almost touch, thus soothing the ache inside me.
“A pillow?” I murmur. “Do I need to remind you that the category is things you bring camping?”
“Yup. And you need somewhere to rest your head when you sleep in that sleeping bag, inside that tent at night.”
“I’m not sure that’s a necessity.”
“They’re not saying it’s a necessity…necessarily. The point of this game is to discern what one hundred people would say they’d bring camping with them.”
I stare at her.
She stares back then lifts her brows in challenge.
Fuck.
“Touché, baby,” I say softly, leaning a little closer.
Her inhale is sharp and fuck if my fingers don’t shift of their own accord, brushing lightly against her side.
