Page 12 of Well, Actually
Why the hell is he laughing? The man should be crying.
“While the ketchup is definitely testing my delicate palate’s bravery, the spiciest thing here is undoubtedly you, Kitten.”
“Don’t call me that.” The words are out way too fast, way too intense, the stupid nickname from college rankling me in a way I don’t want to analyze.
In common sense according to Rylie Cooper’s warped brain, Eva Kitt transformed quickly to Kit-Kat, then Evil Kitten, and eventually just Kitten. I’d never had a nickname before—always plain Eva to a family trying to keep track of so many kids, and something about the way it playfully and endearingly rolled off Cooper’s tongue used to make my stomach swoop and cheeks heat. Hearing it now, with six years and a dump truck of animosity between us, makes my skin prickle and jaw clench.
“Why not?” he asks with a pout.
“Because I don’t play well with dogs.”
“Ah, and we circle back to the sentiment that got us here,” Cooper says, casually tilting his chair on its back legs and waving his half-eaten hot dog around the studio. “Are we finally going to address the elephant in the room?”
A drip of worry starts in my stomach, and my eyes flick to the camera for half a second, then back to Cooper. He isn’t supposed to be this direct about it. We’re supposed to coyly dance around the video and our lackluster history, make a few bland but quotable statements of no ill-will, then part ways without a backward glance.
But the man has the subtlety of a freight-train on a good day, so I tamp down my concern. This is just how he wants to play it, and I’ll be damned if he sees me sweat.
“The elephant being…”
“Your glowing review of twenty-two-year-old me,” Cooper says, a cheeky grin making his dimple pop. I scowl at it.
“Not sure I’d amend much for twenty-eight-year-old you,” I say, giving him a chilly appraisal. “Except maybe add in the receding hairline.”
To my utter delight, his hand darts toward his perfectly intact and outrageously full head of hair. My grin must be vicious, because he narrows his eyes before giving me a flicker of a smile and an almost imperceptible nod acknowledging my arrow hit its target.
“Well, that’s what I want to change,” he says.
“Change?” He’s going off script. He’s not supposed to go off script. He’s absolutelynotsupposed to be leaning closer to me like that, talking in a low voice with a private smile like I’m the only one he wants to hear what he’s going to say next.
“You said in your video you could think of half a dozen other red flags besides me—”
“Being selfish in bed.”
He snorts, biting on his bottom lip as he stares into my eyes. “I was going to say being in a frat, but if you want to talk through a play-by-play of my performance I’m more than happy to. I’d love your constructive criticism and suggestions for future reference.”
Heat sears through me but I roll my eyes. “In your dreams.”
“I’ve certainly seen you there a time or two,” he purrs, eyes making a quick and heated flick over me. The hunger in his words shocks me speechless, and his satisfied smirk tells methat’s exactly what he was hoping for. “I want a do-over,” he says, louder now, that unabashed grin back in place.
“A-a…do-over?” My face twists like I sniffed sour milk. Unfortunately, all I actually smell is whatever absurdly sexy cologne he’s wearing. Something clean and tempting. Sunshine and sin. I grab my hot dog, aggressively ripping into a bite so the smell of ketchup replaces him.
“I want a chance to win you over. Win back your good graces,” he says smoothly, gaze fixed on my mouth as he watches me chew. I make sure to add a few open-mouthed chomps.
“To win them back you’d need to have had them at some point,” I growl through a mouthful, a thick piece of bun clogging my suddenly dry throat.
He laughs again, and the sound unlatches memories in me, those flirtatious moments in college where it felt like I won a prize every time I’d pull the sound from him. I hate that his laugh is genuine—nothing like the shallow chuckles I use in interviews, barely convincing anyone that I’m amused.Allhis laughs seem to be genuine, though. He’s incapable of faking good humor.
What a fucker.
“Okay. Fine.” His eyes crinkle as he continues to smile at me. “I want the chance to prove to you that despite all your evidence to the contrary, I’m actually not a bad guy.”
I blink at him. “And I want to live solely off fun-shaped noodles and forget vegetables exist. Are we going to continue trading fruitless wishes?”
He searches my face. “I have a proposition for you,” he says carefully.
I can’t help my terrified glance to the cameras before landing on Aida behind them, who looks equally confused.
Get HR, I mouth to her. She snaps back into work mode, glaring at me as she jerks her hand in a signal for me to focus on Cooper.
