Page 48 of Talk Nerdy To Me
“I never see you play the games,” he points out, gesturing to my neatly tucked away gaming console.
“I mostly play on my laptop in my room or at the office,” I explain. “Anyway, you get certain advantages in the gift of knowledge. In this particular game,” I tell him, gesturing to the screen at Harley as she slinks around through a deserted part of the park, heading toward the throne in the center of the field, “the goal is to capture the queen.”
“Then why is no one trying to capture—” His words cut off, because as soon as Harley gets on the throne, the screen goes to a group of men and women who are all hiding in various places to strategically ambush her.
“Their scrolls told them the objective was to capture the queen,” I say as the film speeds up on its own, the hours in the top right hand dwindling on, as the people move in fast-forward speed, idling, killing time as they wait.
“It said if the queen touched the statue of the crowned lore, she was safe. Her advantage, however, was that the game was over if she reached the throne. The throne is on the other side of the park.”
His lips part. “So the game is already over after just a few minutes, but no one knows that but the queen.”
It stops on a spot where Harley is having to explain to some guys who’ve stumbled across her they haven’t captured her; the game is, in fact, already over.
“Everyone assumes the queen has to go to that statue, when in reality—”
“The queen had too much of an advantage from the very beginning, and she wasn’t playing the game. Everyone else was playing her game,” he says, eyes going a little wide as a slow grin curves his lips. “You’re going to have to talk nerdy to me more often, Britt,” he adds, standing abruptly and bending over to press a hard kiss to my forehead.
Then he’s gone, already jogging toward the guest room, while I try to remind myself that forehead kisses are completely platonic. I half wonder if he’s installed a strobe light when the room flashes before I realize it’s just me blinking uncontrollably.
People truly will believe I’m a robot if I continue to glitch like one. Robots are only sexy to a small demographic.
Base isn’t in that demographic.
I’ve finished up the rest of the short clips by the time he walks back out, a shirt in his hand. My phone vibrating tries to help distract me from all the very eye-catching things.
“Please tell me you’re hungry, because I’m starving, and I want to buy you dinner. It’s my pathetic way of making up for all my crazy,” he says, grabbing his own phone.
I look down, reading the message from Harley.
HARLEY: Taking in the sights? Figured out why I’m the world’s best boss and most awesome friend yet?
Confused, I glance up to answer Base, only to get distracted immediately while he pulls on his shirt, his attention still on his phone. It’s harder to look away when he doesn’t know I’m looking. Physically harder.
It’s getting out of sorts.
I thought taking off of clothing was supposed to be the sexy part. Not the putting on of clothing.
My eyes flick down to my phone, then back up to Base, then back down again, and I have an ooohhh moment.
In the very next second, I want to do her physical harm.
ME: I told you he rejected me, or have you forgotten? How can this be anything other than cruel?
HARLEY: Did you mention your hymen before said rejection?
I blink.
ME: Yes.
HARLEY: Then there’s still hope. Besides, no guy calls a girl his muse, takes photos of her all the time, and has zero attraction to her.
ME: You’re supposed to help me be less confused. Not more confused.
HARLEY: I’m the world’s best boss, and one day you’ll buy me the appropriate mug. When that day comes, I’ll know it’s because you mean it and not because you’re sucking up.
Following that, she sends me a picture of a mug with the requested captioning, World’s Best Boss.
They genuinely find me to be random, but their collective train of thought eludes me the vast majority of the time when they’re being purposely vague.
