“Oh my god,” I say, flattening my skirt before resting my hands on my waist. “This is so embarrassing… What are the odds?”
“Right? I mean there’s no way either of us is winning the singles costume contest this way and”—he leans in to whisper by bending over at the waist, and he’s still taller than me—“I’m not wearing anything under this.”
I fight the laugh, not wanting this bit to end. I so rarely get a new sparring partner. Never one this cute.
“Well, that’s unfortunate. You should have planned better. I have a few costumes under this one.”
The corner of his lip twitches, but he seems to resist giving me any reaction beyond that. Challenge accepted.
“Such as?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest.
“A Viking,” I answer.
“Now that you mention it, I do see a horn peeking out just a little.” He motions to the side of my head with a bent finger.
“That’s actually standard issue for all of Satan’s spawn, but I could see how you got confused.”
“Concerning. What else?”
“A sexy maid, of course,” I say, batting my lashes.
“Well, that I have to see,” he quips back far too quickly.
Here, I think, is where I win the laugh-off we’re pretending not to have. Shock value always wins.
“But I must insist on keeping the pirate costume, I’m afraid. You see”—I let go of the hook’s inner handle and pull it away in my left hand, revealing my smaller, less-developed right hand underneath—“I am in need of a hook.” I wave at him mockingly, my tiny, curled fingers, shorter than the first knuckle, waggling as best as they can.
He doesn’t break like I want him to. But he does grin mischievously. His eyes crackle with humour, pulling me in at a concerning speed. I’d be frustrated if his expression wasn’t so damn intriguing. Something about his amusement signals that, perhaps, he’s one step ahead of me.
“Oh, I see. Well, then… maybe we can come to some sort of compromise.” He sticks out his foot between us.
You’ve got to be joking.
CHAPTER 2
He’s got a prosthetic leg. It’s covered, loosely, in a vinyl sticker made to look like wood, the kind you’d use to line your kitchen shelves, giving the illusion of a pirate’s peg-leg underneath black trousers he has tied up at the knee with thin, corded leather rope.
“God dammit!” I yell. Which finally gets him to laugh. And it’s a great one too. A hearty, deep, boisterous sound from the back of his throat that makes his jaw tense and his neck jump. Uninhibited. And, dare I say, sexy.
“I really felt like I was going to win this round,” I say, my voice unsteady.
He hasn’t stopped laughing—harder than I am, actually. I’m not used to that, and it’s honestly refreshing. I’ve been told I laugh obnoxiously loud. Some have even gone so far as to compare me to a baby seal calling for its mother. Some meaning more than one person—in two separate instances—have expressed that exact sentiment.
“This is a couple’s costume. The crayons were right,” I say through breathless fits of joy.
He clutches his chest as if to steady himself, his laughter finally beginning to die down. Then I’m treated to the view of a boyish, tilted smile and sincere eyes sweeping over me from head to toe and back again.
I wonder if he likes what he sees. Actually, I’m hoping he likes what he sees. Because I certainly like what he’s got going on. The longer he looks me up and down, the more I consider him approving of my appearance.
My black not-quite-straight but not-quite-curly shoulder-length hair. My thin eyebrows from merciless plucking in my teenage years. My sharp-edged nose, with a simple gold piercing on the left nostril, set between glacier blue eyes. My body is shoved and tucked into this costume to prop up my tits and shrink my waist, but that’s mostly illusion.
I would describe my frame as fairly average. I enjoy long walks, swimming, and dancing, but I equally love rainy days plastered to the couch, pastries, and overly sweetened coffees. My arms and back are strong and sculpted from years of training in butterfly and breast strokes, but my hips and stomach hold the pleasure of a well-fed, comfortable woman. I don’t try to force my body to be something or deprive it of pleasantries. It just is. And I like it, enough, as is.
But what does this seemingly perfect specimen before me look like on an average day? He strikes me as someone who grew up beautiful. The small tilt of arrogance of his chin combined with the naive sweetness in his smile that I wish wasn’t so disarming. He’s probably a foot taller than me, and I can’t help but wonder how hard I’d have to yank on his pleated pirate blouse to bring his lips down to mine.
“I’m Bo.” He extends his left hand—which my body hears as would you like me to fuck you? Because there’s nothing more awkward than shaking with my right hand and nothing more attractive than a man who could have anticipated that.
I shake his hand enthusiastically. “Win.”
“Is that short for something?” he asks, dropping his hand and sliding it into his trouser pocket.
“Winnifred, but no one really calls me that. What about you?” I make a point to emphasise the stretch of my neck, staring up at him as if he’s some sort of fairy-tale giant. “Are you tall for something?”
He can’t stop laughing now. I can’t stop wanting to make him.
“What?” he asks, eyes lit with enjoyment.
“Seriously, what are you? Nine feet tall?”
“Six.”
“Six what though?”
“Six-five.”
“Wildly unnecessary for daily life. Do you play basketball?”
“Eh, used to.” His smile falters only a touch—but I notice. I notice, too, that he—perhaps subconsciously—moves to rub his knee, just above where his prosthesis begins.
I wince. “Sorry,” I offer plainly. “I was born with my hand. So I stupidly forget other people—”
“No worries,” he interrupts me, smiling with his chin pushed out.
“I ruined that. But this was nice before then, wasn’t it?”
He looks away, smirking yet visibly shy, his eyes shifting and his body softly swaying. “It can still be nice. I could even the score? Make fun of your hand, if you’d like?” he offers, clearly unserious.
“Yes, please do. That would actually help a lot,” I say, calling his bluff.
He turns to face me, staring me down with crescent eyes and an ever-growing smile that has the blood rushing to the surface of my skin. I raise a brow in challenge when he appears to be calculating his next steps, his head tilting to the side.
“All right.” Bo holds out his palm, then crooks two fingers, gesturing for me to move closer. “Let me see it then.”
I narrow my eyes on him playfully as I present my smaller hand to him, placing it in his open palm that is about double the size of mine. I swallow on impact, the brushing of our skin shooting sparks up my veins.
“Shit…” he whispers under his breath, turning it over with a grip on my wrist that I love. “It’s adorable,” he says, studying it intently. Then he tuts and lets go, practically tossing it aside. “What am I supposed to say?”