Sure Thing(42)

“My aunt Poppy married an American. Their children were born and raised in the US,” he explains. “I’ve got relatives all over though. It’s fairly normal in our family, I suppose.”

“But you’re close with your cousin?” I question. “Growing up so far apart?”

“We spent summers together. Alternated between the UK and the US.”

“Huh,” I say, not attempting to be subtle. The car makes another turn and I wonder where it is we’re going. I squint out the window, trying to place us. I think the tour bus was on this road earlier.

“Dare I ask?” He sounds amused and I bring my eyes back to his.

“I was just imagining you visiting during your teenage years…” I trail off while resting a hand on his knee.

“And?”

“And I’m thinking about all those American girls who didn’t know what to do with it.” My voice is soft and neutral given we’re not alone in the car, but I slide my hand higher as I speak.

In retrospect it might have been more effective if I’d been bold enough to go farther than mid-thigh, because instead of being seduced Jennings laughs.

“Are you still thinking about that?” He places his hand on top of mine and runs the pad of his thumb softly over the back of my hand. I think he’s done more to seduce me with this one simple unthought move than I did with my intentional slide up his leg.

“No…” I draw the word out. Maybe. A little bit. Yes. The answer is yes.

“Are you jealous, love?”

“No!” I scoff. “Of course not.” I shake my head a little. “But I mean, how big is that number exactly? The number of women who didn’t know what to do with it? Because I assume the number of women who did know what to do with it is much larger than the women who didn’t know what to do with it. So the number of women who didn’t know what they were doing with it can’t be that large. Like as a statistical pool.”

“Wow.” His face is unreadable for a moment as he just stares at me. “So jealous,” he says slowly then starts laughing again.

“So where does your cousin live?” I ask to deflect my odd possessive moment. Also because I’m wondering how often he visits his cousin and if he might want to visit me too. What? I’m a thinker. And O’Hare is a major hub. I could meet him at the airport for a quick layover. At the Hilton.

“He grew up in Connecticut,” he begins and I almost groan out loud. I cannot catch a break. There cannot possibly be one flight pattern from London to Connecticut that routes through O’Hare. Not even the shitty cheap flights with crap layovers. “But he’s in Las Vegas now,” he adds. “Living there, for work.”

Praise Jesus.

“Do you visit often?” In my head I imagine I’m asking this super-casually, but Jennings smirks with a brow raised and I’m pretty sure he’s calling my bluff on this one.

“You’re a big fan of Vegas, are you? Big gambler? Blackjack? Poker? Roulette, maybe?”

“I’ve never actually been.” I pull my hand out from under his and pick nonchalantly at a piece of lint on my dress. “But I imagine myself to be fantastic at the slot machines.”

“You’re good at pushing buttons, that’s for certain.”

I flick my eyes back to his and place my hand on his leg again. Higher this time. I’m sitting near sideways on the seat so I can look at him while we talk and it gives me the leverage to slide my calf over his. Lightly. I inch my hand a bit higher and keep my eyes on his while holding his gaze for three seconds and smiling, because if it worked in a bar it most surely works in a backseat. I’m not entirely sure what I’m trying to accomplish though since I’d bet real Vegas money that I’m not going to bed alone tonight and I’m way too old to go at it in a backseat with someone else driving the car, even if I’m pretending to be someone I’m not this week. A girl has her limits.

Jennings tips his head closer to mine and covers my lips with his own, one hand on the nape of my neck to hold me steady as his lips brush over mine. Softly. But his other hand drags the hand I’ve placed mid-thigh up to the juncture of his legs. He squeezes my hand underneath his, forcing me to feel him through the denim barrier separating us.

I whimper, a silly little mumble from the back of my throat, and he smiles into the kiss, his lips curving against mine before he breaks us apart and touches his forehead to mine.

“Later,” he promises with a wicked grin and one softly spoken word. Then he’s opening the car door because the car has stopped and we’ve arrived. I blow out a breath to calm myself because he’s just managed to work me up in the space of a nanosecond while I was attempting to seduce him. He threw that in my face, so to speak, didn’t he?