I took a step forward and shrugged out of the jacket, “Would we be friends? Or just Mr. Sullivan and Miss. Morris? Could we still hang out?”
He let out a deep sigh and I didn’t like the hard expression setting his mouth in a firm, unhappy line, or the way his usually fiery eyes were growing cold and distant. “Listen,” he said it slow, like a rumbly growl, “I’m not an overbearing asshole but I’m also not a masochist. So, no... I’m not interested in being friends.”
“Hmm.” I said, studying him. If I were honest with myself I had to admit his answer made me happy… strangely. I didn’t understand why so I tucked the data point away for future analysis. Regardless, it made me happy and I allowed myself a small smile. The alternating lava and ice emoto-craziness I’d been living with since last Sunday settled down to a heated simmer of unease.
“What if-”
“Janie-” he lifted his hands, hesitated, then placed them on my upper arms; I found it interesting that he seemed to need to touch me or make contact between us before he could speak sometimes, “what can I say to convince you that a relationship between us isn’t going to affect your job?”
“But what if we were to break up or it didn’t work out?”
“I still wouldn’t fire you.”
“How can you be certain of what you’ll do? What if I kidnap your dog?”
“What? Why would you-” he huffed impatiently, shook his head, “I don’t have a dog.”
“That’s not the point. What if I turned bat-shit crazy on you but still was a great employee?”
“I’m professional enough to keep my work-life and personal-life separate.”
I sighed unhappily, “But you don’t know-”
He slid his hands down to mine and held them, “You can’t prepare for every scenario or eventuality.”
“But what if getting involved turns out to be a horrible mistake?”
“What if it turns out to be the best decision we ever made?” he countered.
“I’m risk adverse.” Even as I said the words I squeezed his hands with mine, afraid he would let go.
He studied me, frustrated contemplation encouraging his brow to furrow deeply. He shifted closer, leveling me with a deliberate gaze, “Ok, what if we didn’t decide. What if we left it to chance?”
I swallowed, “How so? How do we do that?”
“We’ll play poker.”
“One hand?”
“No, we’ll play until midnight. Whoever has the most clothes on at midnight wins.”
“Wins what?”
His eyes flickered to my lips and he licked his own, “If I win then we date, for a month. During which I get to buy you whatever I want-” I started to protest but his voice rose over mine and his hands held me in place, “-and you stop looking for reasons or labels or whatever for why we shouldn’t. If you win then…” he shrugged lightly, “then you decide what happens next.”
I swallowed again, eyed him wearily, then pulled my hands from his grip and stepped to the side.
Still hot, I pulled the sweatshirt over my head; the workout shirt also came off at the same time and I tossed them across the discarded jacket. This left me in my tank top, bra, sweat pants, underwear, socks, and slippers- six pieces of clothing, nine if you counted the socks and slippers as separate articles.
The room titled a little and I wobbled. My state of intoxication hung around my consciousness like a fur coat and would likely continue for several hours. Any decisions I made would likely be impaired.
Impaired judgment- check.
His eyes drifted to my neck, chest, stomach, then back up again. The usual fire reignited in his eyes but it was mixed with something else, something I couldn’t place or, more likely, didn’t comprehend. It was like I’d just slapped him but not quite.
I stopped trying to read his thoughts and instead tallied his clothes with a sideways glance. He was wearing a tie, shirt, jacket, undershirt, pants, socks, shoes, and either boxers or briefs. That counted as seven pieces of clothing or ten if you counted the socks and shoes as separate pieces.
“We’re not evenly matched.” I pointed to his tie then put my hands on my hips and mimicked his stance. I hoped bravado and wine-haze would prop up my resolve. So far so good.
He glared at me, looking resentful, and his voice was steely as he asked, “What, specifically, makes you think so?”
I lifted my chin and indicated his tie again, “Your tie, Quinn. I have on nine pieces of clothing and, assuming you’re wearing underwear of some sort, you have on ten. Now I can either put on my hat or you can take off your tie.”