Page 9 of Wicked Temptations
I blinked. “Seriously?”
“You want to settle it or not?”
It was such a Jude solution—competitive, physical, with clear rules and a definitive winner. Part of me wanted to laugh. Part of me wanted to grab him and kiss him until he stopped trying to turn everything into a contest. Another part of me wanted to remind him how much stronger I was.
Instead, I said, “Fine. Let’s go.”
We sat across from each other on the bench, and when our hands locked together, palm to palm, I felt it like an electric shock. This was supposed to be simple. A test of brute strength. But the way he was looking at me, the way our knees knocked together in the narrow space, made it feel like something else entirely.
“On three,” I said.
“One,” he counted.
“Two,” I continued, tightening my grip.
“Three.”
We both pushed, and it was immediately clear this would take a while. We were evenly matched, and what I had on him strength-wise, he had in the stubborn unwillingness to yield. My arm shook with effort, and his jaw was clenched tight, and neither of us was gaining ground.
A minute passed. Then two. My shoulder was burning, but I refused to give up, refused to be the one who broke first. His eyes were locked on mine, dark and intense, and I realized with sudden clarity that this wasn’t about winning anymore.
It was about not letting go.
It meant that the rules could be broken.
My free hand came up and gripped his bicep, thumb pressing into muscle, at the same time his free hand found my thigh, fingers digging in. We were both breathing hard, faces inches apart, and I couldn’t tell if we were still arm wrestling or if this had turned into something else.
Our hands trembled in the middle, still locked together, and I made a decision.
I let go.
He almost toppled over with the force of how hard he’d been pushing.
“Fuck this,” I said, standing up before I could do something stupid like lean across the bench and distract him with a kiss. “I’m buying breakfast. You win. Happy?”
His expression was pure confusion. “What?”
“You win.” I was already moving to my locker, grabbing my street clothes, needing distance. “Meet me at Frank’s in twenty minutes if you’re hungry.”
I left before he could respond and before I admitted that I’d thrown the match just so I wouldn’t have to see him lose.
Chapter 5
Ash
Frank’sDinerwasmostlyempty when I arrived, just the usual late-night crowd of truckers and people coming down from various highs. I grabbed a corner booth and ordered coffee, trying to settle my nerves.
He might not come. Probably wouldn’t come. Jude wasn’t the type to fraternize with people he clearly disliked—
The door chimed, and he walked in.
My heart did something complicated in my chest as I watched him scan the diner, find me, and head over. He slid into the booth across from me, and neither of us spoke for a moment. The fluorescent lights were harsh and unflattering, nothing like the dramatic reds and strobes of the scare zone, but somehow, he still looked good.
“You came,” I said finally.
“You’re buying. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because you don’t like me.”
