Page 41

He raises his hands in surrender, although I’m sure it’s another ruse to lead me into a false sense of security.

“Tell me your most embarrassing moment,” I say.

“Hmm . . . not really a question, but I’ll allow it.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. I don’t want to give him any reason to change his mind.

“The day I came into Squeeze the Day for the first time...the first day I met you, I was running away from a business associate of my father’s.”

“Okay . . .”

“I’d had a meeting with him the week before; his wife had attended, and she’d been running her foot up and down my leg all evening. No matter how many times I shifted, she found my leg and kept winking at me over her wine glass. I thought she was a thrill seeker, desperate to do something, or someone, right under her husband's nose. That was until I felt his foot on my other leg. It turns out they were both interested. I kindly declined their offer and then when I saw him in the street a few months later, I was too embarrassedto speak to him. He’d shouted my name a few times, and I ran into the juice bar and tucked myself behind that man who was as big as an SUV. I’d ordered a coffee, which, by the way, was disgusting. And then I saw you. I just had to pray that the guy wouldn’t follow me in and try to talk about the proposal in your vicinity.”

“You’re not into sharing a woman?”

He laughs. “That’s what you took from that?”

I shrug. “It’s not that uncommon.”

His chin dips, and his nostrils flare for a split second. Is that possessiveness I see?

“What they get up to in their own time is on them. I wasn’t interested because I wasn’t attracted to either of them. My turn.”

I grip the bottom of the chair, leaning forward, braced and ready to spill my most embarrassing story, too.

“Have you ever been shared?”

Oh, shit. Not what I thought he was going to ask.

It’s nine in the morning, dammit. This is a nighttime conversation surely? When a blanket of darkness can hide the flush of my skin that the morning light just can’t.

“I...” I feel the heat spread, and his eyes calculate the probability of whether it’s my inexperience that’s causing me to blush or the memory of being shared by two men. “No, I’ve never been shared.”

I swallow hard, watching his reaction.

He breathes slowly through his nose, nodding, his shoulders relaxing. “Good. Not many people want to make it pleasurable for everyone involved. It’s good you haven’t done that.”

Good? Is he one of those people? Why did I limit us to five questions?

“Haven’t done thatyet, you mean,” I say, eager to provoke him.

“Yet?” he parrots, his mouth gaping slightly.

“I can’t speak for the future.” I shrug.

Oh god, what am I doing? Shut up, Olivia.

Austin rolls his shoulders back and pulls his head down toward his shoulder to the left and then to the right, stretching out the neck muscles he’s been clenching. His eyes are closed, and he takes a deep breath.

“What was the name of your stuffed toy when you were a kid?” he swerves to the point of whiplash.

I can’t keep up.

“I...I have a crocodile,” I say, and he seems to nod knowingly as if he’s met the stuffed toy already. “He’s called Chops.”

“Chops. Great name.” He grins, all tension seemingly dissipated.

“What was the name of your stuffed toy?”