Not You It's Me

by Julie Johnson

He laughs. “Do you do that around everyone, or just me?”

  “Do what?”

  “Blush like that.”

  My cheeks get even redder. “Oh, around everyone,” I lie shamelessly.

  His grin gets bigger, like he knows I’m full of shit. “Uh huh.”

  “You know, I think I’m feeling better,” I say decidedly, folding my arms across my chest. “You can take me to Chrissy’s, now.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed. It’s cute as hell.” He leans closer and my stomach clenches in response. “Most women I meet are so busy being sophisticated, they forget to be real.”

  I stare at him. “Maybe you’ve been hanging around with the wrong women.”

  “Maybe,” he agrees softly, reaching out to brush a wet strand of hair off my cheek. As soon as his fingers make contact with my skin, my mouth parts as a breath of air slips out. I’m nearly in a daze when he adds, “But I’d be no good for you, Gemma.”

  Pulling back, I stare at him. I’m so startled by his words, I forget to be embarrassed. “And why is that?”

  “You’re much too sweet for me.”

  “I’m not sweet. I’m tough.”

  “Said the girl who doesn’t like contact sports and, last time she went to the gym, sprained her va—”

  “Ah!” I yell, cutting him off. “Okay. No need to go into details.”

  He grins again and my stomach squirms at the sight.

  “You’re cocky. And gloating. Some might even say annoying,” I tell him, my eyes narrowed on his smiling face. “I’ve decided I don’t like you.”

  He leans even closer, and my heart starts to pound in my chest. “Oh, you like me,” he whispers. “That’s exactly the problem.”

  “You only date women who don’t like you?”

  His eyes glitter. “I don’t date at all, Gemma.”

  “Oh,” I whisper, my mind reeling at all that his words imply.

  Everything about this man, from the way he kisses to the way he looks at me to the sexual energy practically pouring off him, screams he’s not one to go without female company for long. So, he may not date, but he certainly….

  Makes love?

  No, that’s not the right term.

  He…

  Fucks.

  This is a man who fucks.

  The thought alone is enough to give me heart palpitations.

  “Stop looking at me like that, Gemma,” he says, his voice so low, it sounds like a threat. Probably because it is one.

  “Like what?” I ask defensively, my eyes locking with his.

  “Like you’d like to see what not dating me entails.”

  My cheeks heat. “That’s not what I was thinking.”

  He doesn’t bother calling me out on my lie.

  “Tell me who you are,” I whisper, meeting his eyes though the darkness.

  “No, I don’t think so.” His eyes go soft around the edges and his voice drops so low I can barely make out his next words. “You’ll find out soon enough, anyway.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Whatever.” I roll my eyes. “You won’t tell me and I clearly suck at guessing. That leaves us only one option.”

  His brows lift in amusement. “Does it, now?”

  I nod gravely. “Two Truths and a Lie — have you ever played?”

  “No, but the title gives away the rules of the game.”

  “Right.” I fight a blush. “First one to guess four correctly wins.”

  “Wins what, exactly?” he asks suspiciously.

  “Um….” The blush I was fighting takes over. “Uh…”

  “First rule of negotiations.” He leans closer, his eyes on mine. “Always know your endgame. Otherwise, there’s no point in fighting at all.”

  “Oh, god.”

  “What?”

  “You’re one of those weirdos who plays chess against himself, and lays awake at night thinking through strategy, and has a first edition of The Art of War on his bookshelf, aren’t you?” I shake my head in faux-exasperation. “I have a strict rule against dating men like that. I don’t want to be the Luke to anyone’s Yoda, you know what I’m saying?”

  He grins wider. “Was that a Star Wars reference?”

  “Absolutely not,” I lie.

  “Uh huh.” He totally knows I’m full of shit. “And, anyway, you don’t have to worry.”

  “Because you don’t have a first edition Sun Tzu?”

  “Because I don’t date. I already told you that.” A funny look flashes in his eyes — I’d say it’s almost embarrassed, but men like him surely don’t get embarrassed. When he continues, his voice has lost a bit of its polished composure. “I’ll have you know, The Art of War is one of the best works ever written.”

  “HA!” I snort. “You totally have a copy! You’re so predictable.”

  His eyes narrow on mine, but there’s a smile still tugging at his lips. “I’ve never been accused of that before.”

  “Oh! I just thought of what I want.”

  His eyes drop to my mouth. “Really?”

  “From the game.”

  “Oh,” he murmurs, eyes still on my lips.

  I ignore the squirmy feeling in my stomach and press on. “If I win, you go on a date with me.”

  His eyes flash up to mine, suddenly serious. “And if I win?”

  “You won’t.”

  He stares at me skeptically, his gaze unrelenting, until I give in.

  “Oh, fine.” I heave a martyred sigh, as though he’s done something utterly unreasonable, like ask me to stop watching HBO on Sunday nights when Game of Thrones is on. “If you win… I’ll go on a date with you.”

  I expect him to laugh at my smooth negotiation tactics, but he doesn’t. When I look up at him, the gloating smile falls off my lips faster than Ned Stark’s head hit the ground — sorry, spoiler alert — because there’s a look on his face I can’t quite describe.

  Actually, I can describe it; I’m choosing not to.

  Because, if I described it, I’d have to say it looks a lot like pure, unadulterated lust. And that would be bad.

  “Um,” I breathe, my eyes locking with his. They’re liquid with heat, burning into mine across the space between us.

  “If I win,” he says gruffly, leaning closer. “We go back to my place.”

  “Like… for coffee?” I ask hopefully. “Or snacks? I could totally go for a midnight slice of pizza or three.”

  He shakes his head. “No, Gemma.”

  I gulp.

  “One night. No strings.” His words match the intensity of his stare. “That’s all I can offer. That’s all I need.”

  “N-need?”

  Great. I’m so nervous, I’m stuttering.

  He nods slowly, his eyes on my lips. “I don’t do long term. Not ever. But there’s something about you…” His eyes lift to mine. “Just one night. No expectations. No morning afters. No wanting more.”

  “Who says I’d even want more?” I struggle to make my voice offended, but my fast-beating heart and sweaty palms are evidence of some very different emotions coursing through my veins at the moment. Like fear. And lust. And maybe a little bit of excitement.

  He just looks at me, a seriously confident, seriously hot expression on his face. It’s not even cocky, it’s just a fact — he’s so good, I’d want more.

  “You’re awfully full of yourself.” I fold my arms across my chest, staring him down. “And, for your information, I don’t do long-term either, so even if I did agree to your crazy terms, I wouldn’t, like, stalk you or write you long-winded love letters or hold a freaking boom-box over my head outside your bedroom window. This isn’t the tenth grade, and even if it was, I’m not that kind of girl — woman!” I correct swiftly. “Whatever.”

  His lips twitch, but his eyes are deadly serious. “So, you’re agreeing? I win, you spend the night with me.”

  I nod hesitantly. “But it doesn’t matter, ‘cause you’re not gonna win.�
��

  He leans closer, his eyes flashing darkly, and I suck in a breath. “Don’t count on it, Gemma. When I’m invested in something, I fight for it. Hard.”

  I gulp again.

  His stare flickers from my eyes, to my lips, to the small, ornate necklace lying against my skin, in the valley between my breasts. The tiny gold pendant, shaped like the sun, glimmers even in the low light. It’s the prettiest piece of jewelry I own — a gift from my mother, when I graduated high school. She said it was a lucky talisman, to drive away the shadows of misfortune and keep my life cast in light.

  I’ve hardly taken it off, in the near-decade since, but I’ve never called upon its lucky powers more than this moment.

  I have to win this bet. I have to — or I’ll be screwed, in more ways than one.

  “Sunshine…” he whispers, his eyes still fixated on the necklace, which I have a distinct feeling has just become a namesake. “You just gave me something worth fighting for.”

  Holy. Shit.

  What the hell have I gotten myself into?

  Chapter Six

  Lies

  “I’ll go first.”

  “Why do you get to go first?”

  I ignore his question¸ clearing my throat and making my voice serious. “Okay, here goes.” I tick off my truths on my fingers as I speak. “My middle name is so embarrassing I never tell anyone — even my closest friends. When I was sixteen, I was arrested for climbing the town water tower on a dare, but the police chief decided not to press charges because he thought my mom was hot. And, when I go out on dates or am invited over to someone’s place for dinner, sometimes I pretend I’m allergic to broccoli just to get out of eating it.”

  By the time I’m done, he’s shaking his head in amusement. “You’re not going to make this easy on me.”

  “Nope.” I narrow my eyes. “I play to win, too.”

  He inclines his head in acknowledgement. “Good to know.”

  “You’ll never guess it right.”

  “I don’t have to guess.” A slow grin spreads across his face. “I already know.”

  “Big words, Yoda.” Total nerd that I am, I contort my voice to resemble the small green Jedi’s, not above making myself look like a fool if it means distracting him. “Like to see the follow through, would I.”

  He grins wider. “Did you just do Yoda-speak?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “The water tower story — that’s your lie.”

  My mouth falls open. “How did you know?”

  He doesn’t answer, not about to reveal his secrets and give me an edge.

  “I really was arrested for climbing that damn thing.” I sigh. “But the police chief didn’t think my mom was hot, he was just a nice guy, so he let me go.”

  “Point one goes to the cocky bastard,” he says softly. “My turn?”

  I nod.

  “I’ve been to thirty-six countries. I’m fluent in Spanish and Italian, though my French is passable, as well. And I like pancakes, but hate waffles.”

  “The first one,” I say immediately. “No one’s been to thirty-six countries.”

  “You’re right. I’ve been to thirty-seven.”

  I stare at him for a beat, not knowing what to make of that statement, so instead I just say, “Wait, you hate waffles?”

  He chuckles. “Is that a problem?”

  “Um, yes.” I make my eyes bug out. “Only Satan hates waffles.”

  “Maybe I’m the devil.”

  He says it like a joke, but his eyes are so serious it makes me nervous.

  “Okay, the score’s tied, one-one. My turn.” I swallow hard, racking my brain for a good lie. “My favorite flower is the hyacinth. I think the word moist is the grossest in the English language, if you’re using it in any context except to describe cupcakes. And I believe there’s a special ring in hell for people who don’t use their directionals while switching lanes.”

  His eyes work with thoughts for a few seconds as he weighs my words.

  “Hyacinths,” he says finally.

  “Ugh!” I screech. “You really are Satan, you know that?”

  He grins. “What are your actual favorites?”

  “Peonies. The great, big, puffy ones that fall apart after about a nanosecond.”

  His eyes go soft around the edges and he looks like he’s storing that fact away in the steel vault that is his mind. “My turn again. And, Gemma, just in case you forgot…” His voice drops low. “I’m winning.”

  I cross my arms over my chest and glare at him. “For now.”

  He chuckles again, the sound rich and warm coming from his throat. “All right, here goes. I hate text messages — they’re more annoying than mosquitos. I surf, ski, and rock climb whenever I get the chance, which isn’t often. And I have a golden retriever named Charlie.”

  “You so don’t have a golden retriever.” I snort. “And, if you did, his name would definitely not be Charlie.”

  “How do you know?”

  I look him up and down. “People who’ve traveled to thirty-six — sorry, thirty-seven — countries don’t have pets. And besides, you just don’t seem like a dog person, what with that ginormous stick up your butt, and all.”

  He narrows his eyes, at that.

  “I bet you’ve never even had a pet goldfish.” I grin when he doesn’t contradict me. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  A grudging nod confirms it.

  “Sweet!” I pump one fist into the air, victorious. “Two-two. My turn, again.” I pause. “Okay, I’ve got one.”

  He lifts an eyebrow, waiting.

  “All my friends are married, with varying degrees of success. I can’t cook anything, and I do mean anything – even, like, scrambled eggs or toast. And once, in college, I dressed up as Princess Leia for Halloween, with the gold bikini, the hair-buns, and everything.”

  He takes a moment to think, his eyes dark with curiosity and amusement. “Do you still have the costume?”

  “Are you trying to cheat?”

  “Gemma, everyone can make scrambled eggs. It’s biologically programmed into you from birth.” He grins when I make a face. “So, back to the costume…”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “It’s your turn, again.”

  “Fine, fine.” He chuckles. “I hate vanilla – the smell, the taste, everything about it. I drink my coffee black. And the first time I went kite-boarding, I broke two fingers in my right hand.”

  “No one hates vanilla. It’s like, the most basic of all flavors.”

  “I do,” he says, his smile widening. “Which means, you lose.”

  “No way! What’s the lie, then?” My eyes widen. “Don’t tell me – you secretly like loads of hazelnut creamer in your coffee.”

  He shakes his head. “Kite-boarding. I broke three fingers, not two.”

  “Oh, whatever.” I swallow, nervous for the first time since we started playing. “I’ll catch up. You’ll see.”

  “Don’t get too cocky.” His fingers flex against the supple leather of his seat. “I only need one more to win. Unless you’re ready to concede now, and head back to my apartment.”

  “No,” I whisper roughly, all triumph stripped from my tone.

  “Then you better think of a good lie,” he says, eyes glittering with promise. “Because I have no intention of letting you off easy.”

  I begin to rub slow circles into my temple, hoping it might ease some of my sudden stress.

  “Okay, um…”

  “I’m waiting, Gemma.”

  Shit!

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Why did I ever think this was a good idea?

  Probably because I’m unreasonably stubborn when I think I’m right… and, okay, I’m the first to admit that yes, I’m the kind of girl who likes to play with fire — waiting till the last minute to pay my bills, befriending random strangers on the train, driving cross-country in a car with 170,000 miles on the odometer and a failing exhaust system. Most of the time, I lik
e flying through life by the seat of my pants. Going with the flow. Taking things as they come, and all that jazz.

  No commitments. No responsibilities. No answering to anyone but me.

  It’s more fun, that way.

  The only problem is, sometimes I land myself in situations like this, agreeing to crazy bets with sexy strangers who simultaneously tempt and terrify me. Twenty minutes ago, when this was all entirely hypothetical, it was fun. But now, with him looking at me like I’m one of Maria’s fresh-baked cannoli — the kind so good, you devour it in two ravenous bites — it feels a little too real for my liking.

  So real, in fact, that I’m starting to worry he’s serious about taking me back to his apartment and having a wild night of emotionless, meaningless sex.

  It shouldn’t bother me. It’s been so long since I had a decent orgasm, I should be begging him to have his wicked way with me. But, I can’t. Because, well…

  I like him.

  Not in a doodle-your-name-in-my-notebook, listen-to-love-songs-that-remind-me-of-you, smile-to-myself-for-no-reason kind of way. I’ve never felt that way about anyone, and I’m not going to start now.

  But, I do like him, in a normal, you’re-a-cool-human kind of way.

  And that means going on a date with him is pretty much out of the question.

  As for sleeping with him... well, that’s either the worst idea I’ve ever had… or the best.

  “Gemma.”

  My eyes fly up to meet his, and I realize I’ve spaced out for several moments.

  “Sorry.” I clear my throat. “I’m ready now. I think. Almost.”

  He looks at me, recognizing the sudden shift in my mood from playful to pensive.

  “Okay, here goes.” My voice is wavering; I make a conscious effort to steady it. “I broke my leg when I was seventeen, when I fell off the back of a motorcycle, and it still aches whenever it rains. I’m left-handed. And the only thing in my refrigerator at the moment is wine, some expired orange juice, and a really old onion.”

  He’s quiet for a long time, just looking at me, and the silence grows between us until it’s so heavy, I can barely breathe. There’s indecision in his eyes, but I can’t decide whether it’s there because he doesn’t know the answer… or because he does, and he can’t figure out whether he wants to use it.