Page 23 of The Defender
Got her.Hook, line, and sinker.“Nothing illegal or coercive,” I said. “Everything else is fair game. The kiss also has to be voluntary and purposeful. CPR doesn’t count. Neither does getting trapped under mistletoe or tripping and falling on the other person.”
“Kisses are mutual. How are we supposed to determine who initiated it?”
“Come on. One person has to lean in; the other has to meet them. It’s like porn. You know it when you see it.”
“That isn’t clear enough.”
“Yes, it is. There’s no reason to get hung up on such a small detail unless you’re thinking of caving already.” I shrugged. “Come on, buttercup. Yes or no. Are you in or out?”
Her nostrils flared. I could see the debate raging inside her because it was the same one I’d have if I were in her position.
On one hand, she couldn’t resist a challenge, especially when it came from me. She wanted to prove to me—and maybe herself—that shewasn’tattracted to me and that, even if she was, her self-control was stronger than mine. The hundred pounds didn’t hurt either.
On the other hand, a kiss might land us in trouble with Blackcastle, which had a strict no-fraternization rule. Our platonic flatmate situation didn’t violate it, but any romantic or sexual contact—like a kiss—would. The violation could get us fired, suspended, or at least heavily disciplined in whatever manner HR saw fit.
However, that was onlyifthe kiss happened andifthey found out. It would be one kiss shared by two people who both had something to lose. If we didn’t tell anyone, how would Blackcastle know?
“What’s the proposed time frame?” Brooklyn asked, dodging my question.
“For as long as we’re living under the same roof.”
She drew her bottom lip between her teeth. I could practically hear the gears turning in her head.
“Fine, but only because I can’t wait to prove you wrong.” She held out her hand, her eyes steely with determination.
I grinned and shook it. It was small and soft, but her grip was like iron.
Although there was a 95 percent chance our bet would end in a draw, that didn’t mean I wouldn’t try my best to outplay her. “May the best flatmate win.”
CHAPTER 8
VINCENT
I was flexible when it came to a lot of things, but there was one time-honored ritual I refused to miss: my Tuesday night dates with Channel 4.
Forget pub and parties. The only place I wanted to be at that time was on the sofa, parked in front of a flat-screen TV with a cold drink in hand and a bowl of popcorn in my lap.
I relaxed into my seat, my shoulders loosening at the familiar intro music. My phone was on silent, and?—
“What are you watching?”
I glanced over and nearly choked on a kernel of popcorn.
Brooklyn had been holed up in her bedroom all evening. I hadn’t expected to see her again until the next morning, but there she was, waltzing into the living room and wearing the most indecent piece of clothing possible: an oversized football shirt. Nothing else. No shoes, no makeup, just a Blackcastle shirt that skimmed the bottoms of her thighs and showed off miles of bare, tanned skin. Her hair spilled over her shoulders in glossy golden waves, and she looked so fucking good I had to physically restrain my jaw from dropping.
The kernel went down the wrong pipe. I erupted into a fit of coughs and grabbed my drink, my eyes watering. I gulped it down while Brooklyn sank down next to me on the sofa with a deceptively innocent smile.
“Are you okay?” She patted me on the back. “Do you need CPR?”
That sneaky little minx. We were one day into our bet, and she’d already fired the first shot.
Here’s a secret: for most guys, especially athletes, an oversized shirt was the hottest thing a woman could wear. Forget lingerie and heels. Seeing a member of the opposite sex in our favorite club’s gear was pure kryptonite.
Brooklyn hung out with footballers enough to know that. She was playing to my weakness, but I’d be damned if I lost to a piece of athletic wear.
“I’m fine.” I got my coughing under control. “To answer your question, I’m watchingThe Great British Bake Off.”
I purposely didn’t look at her.
