I giggled.
He pointed at me. “Name one Josh Groban song.”
I pretended to have to think about it. “Um, hmm. Oh, I know. Remember When it Rained.”
“Well, shit.”
I grinned. “You don’t know any of his songs, I presume.”
“No, of course not. But that song has to be a fake. It’s just the sort of thing that you’d come up with. It sounds made up. You are lying. That is my final answer.”
I clapped my hands. “Wrong!”
“Well, hell. Pick your prize.”
“I’ll pick after your turn, in case I lose, we can cancel each other out.”
He shook his head, both dimples out in full force. “Hell no. I’m picking a prize if you lose, regardless. You know I never mind paying up.”
“Well, I’ll have to think up something extra special for you, then.”
He winked at me. “I’m counting on it. Okay, hmm, oh yeah, I’ve got one. I bought a painting of you, one of Bianca’s. It’s hanging in my bedroom.”
That one did stump me. “I call bullshit.” It seemed too easy, because there was simply no way he had one of those paintings. I’d put the show together, had handled the sale of each one. There was no way I’d have missed it if he were a buyer.
“You’re wearing a vintage dress. I know it’s called that, because a card with a long description came with the piece. The dress has lots of beading. It’s silver, the color of your eyes. It covers you up to your neck, but it shows off your shoulders, and if I weren’t a pervert, I wouldn’t have to point out that it shows off a bit of side boob too. The most spectacular side boob in the world, but your eyes in it were what slayed me. You know which painting I’m talking about.”
I glared at him. There was no way he should even be able to describe that picture, let alone claim to have it in his home. “There’s just no way.”
“Is that your answer?”
I shook my head, back to glaring at him. “I believe you; I just don’t know how you did it.”
“Dammit, you always were better at this. You win that round. It was the truth.”
“How?”
“Second party buyer. Cost me a fortune.”
“That’s insane. You weren’t even at the show.”
“He texted me all of the pictures, and I picked it out the second I saw it. I picked out three, actually, but that was the only one he got before it sold to someone else. The ass**le was slow as hell, considering how much I was paying him to do it.”
“You do realize that’s insane, right?”
“Yes. Now ask me if I’d do it again.” His tone had gone from playful to so tender that I couldn’t look him in the eye for a long moment.
I looked down at my hands instead, wringing them restlessly.
I should have chewed him out, just on principle, but I didn’t seem to have it in me.
My heart ached. What was I going to do about him? About this?
“Your turn, boo.”
It took me a while, but I composed myself, reined in my reckless emotions.
“I think I’ll stick to my music theme tonight. Fun fact about me. I have three songs about eating pu**y in my music library.” I said it deadpan, and surprised a throw your head back, let loose kind of laugh out of him.
It was official, I still loved to make him laugh.
“I bet you can’t even name three songs about eating pu**y. In fact, that’s it: name three.”
“Hmm?” I played dumb.
“Name three songs about eating pu**y off the top of your head.”
“Birthday Cake.”
“That’s one.”
“It’s a good one. You love it, too. Admit it.”
“Eating your pu**y? Absolutely. I f**king love it.”
That got a giggle and an embarrassed blush out of me.
“Two more, boo.”
“I Love the Pussy.”
“That’s not a real song.”
“It is. I Love the Pussy by Alpa Chino.”
“Fake songs from movies don’t count.”
“They do. It’s a song. I know the words. I could sing it to you.”
“I’d pay to see that.”
“I’d have to lose a round for that.”
“Noted. Fine, I’ll give you that one. One more pu**y song.”
“Pussy by Iggy Azalea.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Well look it up. Real song. Definitely about eating pu**y. So now we’ve established that I can name the songs. The question you have to ask yourself is. Do I have them on my iPod?”
He pursed his lips, but couldn’t hide his irrepressible grin, his irresistible dimples. “Okay, I believe you. I win this round.”
I tried to look innocent. “I can’t remember, does that mean that you get to pick a prize, too?”
“Ha! You’re full of it. You know the rules. There’s always a loser, which means I owe you two, you owe me one.”
I threw my arms up. “Oh fine. How about we cancel out each other for one? Win, win for both of us.”
“Hell no. We already covered that. Quit backpedaling, and let’s negotiate. I’ll go first. Mine is easy. You sing that Alpa Chino song for me. Here and now. Let’s hear it.”
I covered my face with my hands. “I’m not doing that,” I told him.
He was closer when he spoke. “And I get to record it. I want to use it as my ringtone.”
“Oh Lord. That’s messed up.”
I started giggling when he scooped me clean out of my chair, carrying me back to the couch with him. He perched me on his lap sideways, tilting my chin up with his finger, his eyes so warm they left their permanent brand on me.
“I won’t hold back on you, if you make me do this,” I warned him, reaching up to touch a beloved dimple.
“Promises, promises. Start singing, sweetheart. And sing it sexy.”
I did sing it for him, but it was the opposite of sexy. I couldn’t stop giggling for the entire stupid song.