I was less amused.
“Coming from the man wrapped in a jellyfish towel.”
He looked down curiously, his wet hair dripping onto the kitchen tile.
Sure enough, the plush contours of the towel were splashed with an infantile display of smiling sea creatures. The jellyfish in question, was using three of its hands to wave.
“There does seem to be a strange theme developing in my life,” he murmured with a small frown.
Chapter 7
I POURED MYSELF A CUP of coffee as well, and the two of us drank in thoughtful silence.
Him—contemplating the ocean and all its wonders.
Me—contemplating how in the world I was going to get him to agree to a fake girlfriend.
In the end, I decided that unrelenting persistence would be my best shot. Nick was as stubborn as could be, but he also got bored by things incredibly quickly. If I continued to bring up the conversation, when all he wanted to do was get on with his day, there was a chance—not a good chance, but at least a chance—that he might cave and give me what I wanted.
(That part of the plan was absolutely vital. That I phrased it in such a way, where it would be a favor he was doing for me, rather than a command from his father.)
“You know,” I began innocently, kicking my bare feet against the counter, “before I had to go tearing out of the restaurant last night to help you and your lobsters, I was actually having a pretty good time on my date.”
“Oh yeah?” Nick hopped lightly onto the counter and settled comfortably, waking up before my very eyes as the caffeine entered his system. “Better than that Swedish guy? The one with the moustache that made him look like a pedophile?”
I snorted in my coffee and took a second to settle myself.
“Yeah—much better than that.” I blew away a cloud of stream. “I think you’d probably like him. First thing he did was order a bottle of Margaux.”
This peeked a bit of interest.
“What year?”
I avoided the question and moved swiftly forward.
“Good conversation, nice smile...speaks about nine different languages.” At this point, I was just making things up. Filling in the gaps as I built up momentum. “Drives a Maserati.”
This time, it was Nick’s turn to laugh.
I had a well-known habit of judging people badly for driving exorbitantly over-priced cars. It had made one of our first outings in his own Aston Martin rather memorable.
“Does this Romeo have a name? Or did you already forget?” His eyes twinkled playfully as he took another swig of coffee. “You didn’t write it on your hand, did you?”
I hesitated, then shook my head with a self-righteous sneer. No—I most certainly had not written his name on my hand. I only thought I had. Instead, I’d written the name of this Ryan...
“He has a name. I did not write it on my hand.”
Nick lowered his mug, forcing me to make eye contact.
“What is it then? Fast—don’t think.”
I panicked. Whenever he did this—I panicked. He had a piercing focus and commanding intensity (curtesy of the Oxford debate team) that was specifically designed to off-balance his opponent. In a different life, he would have made an incredible lawyer.
“His NAME, Wilder.”
“Ryan!” I blurted. Then blanched. “Wait—Cameron! No, Ryan!”
Son of a bitch.