Page 21 of Hacking His Code

Not the answer I would expect from a college-aged woman.

“If you don’t mind me asking, are you gay?”

Her head snaps in my direction. “Huh?”

“It’s not a problem if you are. I’m merely curious.”

“No, I’m not gay. Unless you count the occasional dream of Gal Gadot as Wonder Woman as being gay.”

“Well, that is kind of gay,” I reason.

“I promise you, every woman has had that dream at least one.”

“As has every man.”

Her face brightens as though she’s just had a revelation. “I guess deep down, we’re all just Gadot-sexual.”

It’s the equivalent of a ‘dad joke,’ but it gets me laughing. I can’t say I’ve ever had a conversation like this with a woman before. Plenty have offered up threesomes in order to keep me interested, which is admittedly sexy as hell.

But Ari isn’t just sexy. She’s also a lot of fun.

“I’ll tell you my dreams if you tell me yours,” I offer with a waggle of my brow.

“No, thanks. I have enough imagination that I don’t need to borrow yours. Gal is probably bored in your dreams, anyway.”

“You may have home-field advantage, but I have a desperate desire to please. Don’t be surprised if it’s my name she screams out.”

Ari suddenly looks like a deer caught in headlights, and I wonder if I’ve gone too far. “Was it something I said? I meant no disrespect.”

“No…I just ran out of witty banter.”

“Well, next time you meet up with Gadot in your dreams, ask her if I ever run out of anything.” I lean down to whisper into her ear. “Spoiler Alert: the answer is no.”

Arinessa rolls her eyes then begins sifting through a mountain of shoes.

“It’s good that you’re single,” I say. “Because the last thing I need is some hot-headed boyfriend losing their shit because you dress up for me and not them.”

“Ummm, I’m dressing up for your parents.”

“Sure.” I cast her a wink.

Arinessa slips on a pair of shoes with dangerously high heels and very little surface area at the bottom.

“How on Earth do women even walk in these?” she says, wobbling as she tries to stand upright.

“Careful, Bambi,” I warn.

“If twig-thin women can walk around a club in them all night, I can surely walk a couple of feet,” she says, carefully toddling forward.

She gets four steps, then turns brazenly like she’s walking a runway only to lose her balance, falling against the vanity.

“Fuck!” she shouts as she flounders to stand upright.

When I laugh, she looks over at me with scathing eyes.

“Let me help you.” I kneel, offering to take the shoes from her feet.

She complies, and I slip them off.