Page 26 of The Wrong Game

“Wow,” I said, surveying the space. Chicago’s downtown lights filled the condominium, even as Gemma walked around turning on lamp after lamp. That soft glow only seemed to highlight the space’s modern appeal more.

I crossed the hardwood floor, passing her living area until I was standing at one of the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the skyline. The river was also within view, the water reflecting the city lights, small boats still cruising under the bridges.

“Damn, girl,” I said, scanning the view. “This is some pad.”

She shrugged, still standing by the last lamp she’d turned on next to her couch. Her keys were clutched in one hand, the other rubbing the back of her neck. “Thanks. It’s, uh…” She rolled her lips together. “I’m still getting used to it.”

“Haven’t lived here long?”

She shook her head, eyes falling to the floor. “I used to live in the suburbs… so it’s a bit of a change.”

“The ‘burbs, huh? Guess that guy wasn’tcompletelyoff with his name-calling earlier, then.”

“Ugh, that guy sucked.”

“He did,” I agreed with a chuckle, tucking my hands in my pockets. I leaned against the window, and suddenly, a heated wave of energy fell over us like a blanket.

I let my eyes crawl up Gemma’s legs, roaming over the tight fabric of her tank top before meeting her gaze. And as soon as my eyes locked on hers, she dropped her keys.

“Shit,” she whisper-yelled, bending over to retrieve them quickly. She dropped them on the table, purposefully this time, running her hands back through her hair with an embarrassed smile before tucking her hands in her back pockets. “Uh, do you want something to drink?”

I didn’t answer, but she crossed to the kitchen, anyway.

“I have… well,” she said, propping her weight on one hip as she surveyed the contents of her fridge. “I don’t have a whole lot, honestly.”

The way her apartment was set up, the kitchen and living room were open and connected, making it easy for me to smile and watch her from across the room. I could see the panic settling in on her face as she scanned her fridge.

“I, uh, I have protein shakes, and water, and orange juice. I have some wine, I think,” she said, letting the fridge close as she quickly pulled open a cabinet. There was one bottle of red wine inside, and she let out a relieved sigh. “Yes! I have wine.”

She pulled the bottle down, holding it toward me.

“See? It’s not beer, but hey, it’s Italian.” She laughed. It was a nervous, flittering sort of laugh.

I just smiled wider.

She swallowed hard, her eyes flicking from mine down to the hem of my jeans before she whipped around, reaching for her wine bottle opener.

“Thanks for coming over,” she said, lining up the screw with the cork. Then, she cringed, turning to me. “Was that weird? Should I not do that?”

“Did it feel weird?”

“Kind of.”

I raised both eyebrows in answer. “Well, what did I say earlier?”

“Don’t do it if it feels weird.” She sighed, leaning against the cabinet. “What if everything feels weird?”

“It won’t,” I assured her, pushing off the window. The poor girl was going to have a panic attack if I didn’t help steer the energy here. “This place really is impressive, Gemma. What made you move here?”

Her eyes softened at that, which was strange, because it was almost as if she slipped on a mask in that moment. She turned to the bottle again, working the screw into the cork. “Belle lives a few floors up. I figured it’d be nice to know someone in a new place. Plus, she’s my boss, and we work just around the corner. It’s convenient.”

“Your boss?”

She nodded. “She owns her own interior design firm. And I’m her assistant. Although, if you asked her, she’d tell you I’m more like a partner.” Gemma smiled a bit at that. “She likes to do the design, the people stuff, and I take care of everything else. It’s nice — fulfills all of my OCD needs.”

I grinned, nodding. Taking in the cleanliness of her apartment, I was sure she wasn’t joking about the OCD thing. And seeing as how her phone was literally full of lists, goals, plans, and rules? Yeah. It made sense.

“And you just moved in?” I asked after a moment, surveying her modern, all-white couch, and sleek television. The accents in her place were minimal — lots of silvers, grays, whites, beiges. There was a fuzzy gray rug under the sleek, geometric table in front of the couch, and just one, large canvas print hanging on the wall opposite the TV.