The more we talk, the more I think maybe we can try this without kink. Maybe we can be together, just the two of us, without thoughts of Jasper and pain and tears. Maybe she and I can be enough for each other, and she’ll drown out the way I ache for him.
Maybe we both just need a bit of fun.
“Strength training. Now, we’re playing this one with a twist,” I say, and even though she rolls her eyes, she’s starting to smile. Some of the snaking jealousy in my chest softens when she does.
I’m beginning to think she has a thing for puns.
Or maybe it’s just for me.
“Sit down, gorgeous, and pour yourself a drink. It’s time for Eden to sin.”
Chapter 17
Eden
SURVIVAL TIP #69
The world will twist you up.
Be flexible.
I don’t move. I am not flexible. I don’t play party games. I didn’t have the kind of childhood that encouraged parties at all, let alone silly activities like this.
“Lucky . . . this isn’t really my kind of thing.”
Resolved to back away, maybe find something else we can do together, I look up at him pleadingly—only to see disappointment dim those bright blue eyes. My stomach jolts. It’s a feeling I remember vividly. How many times did my grandmother tear away my “frivolous” books, or scold me for watching cartoons?
The thought of making teasing, playful Lucky feel anything like that . . .
How am I managing to upset every person I speak to?
“Will you teach me?” I blurt.
He rubs the back of his head the way he does when he’s uncomfortable. It makes his shirt ride up again and, like a magnet, my gaze is drawn to the defined V of golden muscle peeking over the top of his low-slung gray sweatpants.
“We can find something else to—”
“No, I’d like to play. I would.” Biting my lip and tearing my gaze upwards, I kick off my low heels and hike up my skirt.
It’s tight, so I have to edge it up bit by bit to my upper thighs so my legs are free to move. Then I kneel by the absurd drink and pour two glasses, making my own smaller as I remember how potent it is.
Lucky takes the glass from me, his eyes snagging on my exposed legs for a few heartbeats too long. His throat works as he swallows, then, seeming to make up his mind, he shoots me a wicked grin and sits cross-legged on the floor.
“It’s occurred to me that you don’t know how to smile, laugh, or generally have a good time without correcting yourself within about five seconds.”
My own smile fades as I stare at him. “I thought Jasper was supposed to be the psychologist.”
He waggles a finger. “Not an attack, sweetheart. Promise. I’m making it my personal mission to make you smile.”
Well.
I take a sip of my drink, unsure what to say to that.
“So, here’s how we play. Since there’s only two of us, and I’m not having any of the other bozos crash the party, rather than spinning the wheel to choose where we place our hands and feet, we’re going to ask each other questions. If the other person answers truthfully and completely, then they get to choose where to move one of their limbs. If they don’t answer to the questioner’s satisfaction, however, the questioner chooses where they place their limb. And they get to demand a dare from the other person.”
His face was far too innocent as he said the last.
“A dare?” I ask dryly. “What kind of dare?”
Lucky’s wicked grin deepens, flashing that dimple at me. “How good’s your imagination?”
Before I can protest, he lifts a hand. “No dare is allowed that would injure or unduly embarrass the other person. And as for other basic rules, you need to place your limbs in order: foot, hand, other foot, other hand. Start with whatever you like, but you have to change each time. No just moving one hand around the mat.”
Not trusting him a whit, I look around the room as though I might be able to spot a trap as I consider his offer. I only see a few sofas, the intercom, the piano, a guitar in one far corner, a sound system, large microphones in each corner of the room, and an expansive collection of records. That, and the table with the monkey mix on it, a bottle of icy water, and the box that the Twister mat came in. Finally satisfied, I give a reluctant nod.
Lucky shakes his head with a tsk. “So distrustful. It’s heartbreaking. Good to play? You can start. Ask me a question.”
He sets the drink down, walks to the side of the mat with red circles, and looks at me expectantly.
Hmm. Tapping my lip, I think for a moment, then ask, “Were you really in a circus?”
Lucky laughs and then pouts as though disappointed in me. “Yes,” he replies, then puts his right foot on a red circle. “Why did you love your favorite childhood toy?”
I scowl at him. Right. Yes and no answers are a stupid idea. I stand, put down my drink and walk to the opposite side of the mat, the one with green circles.
“I didn’t really have many childhood toys. I did have an old shirt that I loved when I was little. It belonged to my mother.
But I threw it away when I was ten and realized she wasn’t ever going to come back.” I put my left foot on a green circle in the corner farthest from him. Sensing Lucky’s eyes on me, I quickly ask, “Why did you join the circus?”
When I look at him, he smiles again, although it seems a little forced, and I’m grateful. I don’t like thinking about my absentee parents.
“My parents were both acrobats. They ran a cirque studio and taught classes with other people in their troupe in the off season. The circus itself was only set up during summer. I picked it up over the years, mostly. I was there after school every day, and everyone was willing to teach me. Eventually I started teaching classes too. Easy money doing something fun.”
I study him, all lean, catlike grace and power. Yes, I can see Lucky running around with a group of people who laughed and loved as freely as he seems to. The thought has me smiling too.
“I bet you were popular with the students,” I say, and then wish I could swallow the words.
My cheeks flame, but he only winks. Then he pulls his shirt over his head in one smooth movement.
“What are you doing?” I squeak.
Smooth, golden skin covers corded, defined muscles. He isn’t bulky, but his clean lines and tight, cut abs send me right into danger of combustion. I clench my hands as my fingers itch to slide over him, and I try to keep my gaze somewhere safe.
Damn it, he’s gorgeous. Nowhere’s safe.
“Twister is a game of strength and balance. I mustn’t be impeded by something so insignificant as a shirt,” he tells me in a fair imitation of Jasper’s haughty, silken tones.
Despite my distraction, I can’t help my unladylike snort. As soon as it escapes me, I clap a hand over my mouth, mortified.
He frowns. “Nuh-uh. No smothering laughs, smiles, snorts, or any other bodily functions. Except coughs—because hygiene.
Do it again and I’m going to claim a dare.”
After giving me a mock-stern look, he dimples and then bends over backwards, stretching diagonally across the whole mat and placing his right hand on the green circle next to my foot. It places his head under me, and I shift back so he can’t see up my skirt. His muscles ripple as his back arches in the unnatural position.