Page 6 of Drop Shot
He sets down the bag on the island and pulls out one of the stools and sits.
He seems to swallow the space up with him. He’s just sobig.
Gigantically tall at six-foot-five, and broad, with every part of him built for speed and strength. He’s larger than life and he’s in my fucking apartment sucking up all the air.
Or maybe it’s just me who forgot to breathe.
“You named your fluffy girly catCraig.”
I sigh and set down our cutlery and napkins on the coffee table and head back to the fridge for drinks. “My sister picked it. I don’t know why, but it stuck. I think we all just thought it was funny.” I shrug and peer inside at what I’ve got. “I have water, sparkling water in a few flavors, Red Bull, and some wine.”
“Anything orange flavored?”
I swipe a Olipop and pass it over to him, selecting the tropical punch flavor for myself.
“I usually eat at the coffee table.”
Why do I feel so fucking awkward?
“Cool.” He slides off the stool and takes the bag. “Great view.” He nods to the set of windows overlooking the city.
“Thanks. It’s what sold me on this place. I didn’t need a lot of space since I’m barely home anyway.”
“Touche.”
He sits down on the couch and I take a spot on the rug so I can use the coffee table for my food. Elias eyes me skeptically.
“I don’t bite.”
“This is how I always eat dinner,” I defend, reaching for the remote. I find a rerun of Shark Tank and lower the volume since we need to be chatting. “So, if we’re doing this thing you need to get to know more about me.”
“And you don’t need to know me?” he counters.
As I rifle through the bags for my order, I rattle off, “Elias Matthew Johnson. Six-foot-five. Weight is usually around one-eighty. Your favorite color is red. You’ll only use Charmin Ultra-Soft toilet paper. Your childhood best friend is Brent but you don’t really talk anymore. You crashed your bike when you were twelve and now you have a scar on your calf because of it. You?—”
His warm hand presses to my mouth. “You’ve made your point. I know things about you too, though,” he counters.
I eye him skeptically. “Like what?” There’s a challenge in my tone.
“Like”—he pauses to take a bite of noodles— “your favorite color is pink.” At my gasp of surprise, he levels me with a look that saysseriously?“You wear pink more than any other color. It’s pretty obvious. Your coffee order is a caramel macchiato. If that isn’t an option, as long as it’s strong and iced you’re usually okay. Your iPad is basically a permanent appendage at this point. I’m fairly certain you could run not only the country, but the entire world, just with your determination and that device.” He takes another bite of noodles. “I might not know everything about you, but I do know some things.”
I dig into my chicken. “Point proven.”
“There are other things I should probably know as your boyfriend.” He arches one elegant brow. When I first started working for him, I was certain he got his brows waxed because I’d never met a guy with such perfectly done brows, but nope, I’ve never scheduled him an appointment for that so he’s just genetically blessed by the brow gods.
“Like what?”
When he smirks, I know I’ve played right into his hands and I’m probably not going to like whatever he says.
“What turns you on for starters.”
I gasp and choke on my chicken.
“Fuck, Whimsy. I was kidding. Don’t die on me.” He smacks my back and I grab for my drink.
“I wasn’t expecting you to say that.”
“Sorry. I was trying to lighten the mood and for some reason when I feel that way my brain goes straight to inappropriate things.”
