Page 32 of Not Before Game Night
“No, sweetheart, that’s not me. My achievement is the chance I have to play each game. That chance gives me a shot to be as amazing as I want to be. Without it I wouldn’t be able to do fuck all, no matter whose son I am.”
Maybe it was because of my expectations in the answers I thought he’d give why he threw me. I expected him to sound a lot more assholish and pompous with every answer overdone. His answer actually had the integrity Gage spoke of yesterday.
“That’s very admirable. I never thought of it like that. I’m sure your fans will like it.”
“Do you like it?” he asked with that wicked smile.
“It’s a good answer, but it doesn’t matter what I like.” Already I could feel the heat creeping into my cheeks. It started at the edge of my neck and trickled over my skin.
“Maybe it matters to me.” A slow, easy smile spread across his handsome face.
Maybe I needed to pick a safer question. But which was best? He seemed to be able to put a spin on anything and either give me something I never expected or insert some innuendo or hidden message.
I scanned over my list and picked question nine.
“What do you like to do in your spare time?” That seemed safe in my head. However, as the words left my mouth, I realized it might not have been. After all, didn’t I just spend an unhealthy amount of time on Google seeing for myself all that Cole Buchanan did in his spare time? Did I really want to hear it from the horse’s mouth?
As if to confirm my fears, the smirk he gave me told all, and my breath hitched in anticipation.
“Draw or paint pictures of naked women,” he replied with a little chuckle. It sounded like the kind of laugh you’d hear from a villain who’d just backed his prey into the corner.
“Excuse me?” I squinted and contorted my face into a scowl.
His smirk turned into a very amused laugh. “You should see your face. You look cute when you’re rattled like that.”
“Do you expect me to write that?”
“Sweetheart, you can write whatever you want. That though, I figured you wouldn’t write that.”
“So, can you tell me something else you do in your spare time? You seem to like cooking.” He was an excellent cook.
“I don’t cook in my spare time. I love good food and love my mother’s cooking, so I just cook what she taught me to make. That’s an everyday thing. What I do in my spare time is what I told you.”
The man was insufferable. Just insufferable. I would have taken a second or two to think it was sweet that he liked his mother’s cooking if he wasn’t being so difficult.
“So, in your spare time you draw or paint pictures of naked women, like some kind of pervert, or a creeper?” I gave him a cold, hard stare.
“Why do you sound so angry?” he threw back.
“I am not angry, just shocked by you. What is the matter with you? No normal person does things like that.” I shook my head at him, then I realized he must have been lying. “It’s a lie, isn’t it? Youdrawing or painting? You think this is some kind of joke. I’m here to interview you. It should take a max of half an hour, but I’ve only asked you four questions.”
The smile receded from his face and he got up, walked around to me, snatched my notebook, and sat down next to me on the sofa.
The closeness was unbearable, and he made it worse by moving right up into my face like he was checking something. Something in my eye.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting it right,” he answered, then he flicked over to a fresh page in my book, took my pen from my hand too, and behold, started drawing.
Drawing me.
At first, I really did think it was a joke, but as his hands got to work, my mouth dropped.
In five minutes, he drew a picture of me sitting as I was with everything precise about me. From the wayward strand that escaped the rest of my hair and curled under my ear, to the surprise in my eyes. I could actually see the emotion in the picture.
When he was done, he handed me back the book and stood up.
I continued to stare at the image of myself, lost for words, lost in his talent… doing my best not to get lost in him.
