“What would you have predicted?”
“A Speedo?”
“Well,” I say, “the one time I wore a Speedo to court I was fined.”
She fights a smile, and studies me. “You’re a lawyer?”
“Easy, high roller. I’m twenty-three and a half; still only a clerk. I’m applying to law school.”
I watch her fight a groan. “Of course you are.”
“I mean, it’s not surfing all day and pouring drinks all night, but it’s a start.”
Fuck. That was sort of dickish.
I can tell how hard it is for Sunshine London to be outright dismissive of this, but she manages a tiny little fuck you smile as she turns away, grabbing a few cups of salsa and making her way over to the exit. She pushes the door open with her ass, and places the salsa on a table just outside. The words Worthy Opponent flash in my head before she turns and comes back inside to wait for her food.
When she looks up at me, her full mouth curls in a smile. I study her blond hair, freckles, and the whole length of her: forever-long legs in her tiny shorts, breasts somehow contained by the triangles of her bikini top. My attention returns to her face and I catch a glimpse of her open, unguarded expression—some vulnerability or curiosity about what I’m thinking—before she slips her defense back into place.
Her number is called and she picks up an enormous plate piled with some unidentifiable food. Holding it up to her nose, she inhales deeply. “I come here for the carne asada fries.” With another little smile, she says, “See you later!” and heads back out to her table.
This girl, I swear.
I hadn’t planned on taking my food to go, and with only four tiny tables it’s a little awkward to sit in the same small restaurant but not together. My number is called, and after a pause, I grab my plate and follow her outside.
“Incidentally,” I tell her, “I come here for the soyriza nachos.”
London looks up as I set my food down in front of her. “What are you doing?”
I get it. This is a little weird, and as much as I might like her, I respect that the other night was a one-time thing. But I’m not going to eat soggy nachos in my car out of a Styrofoam container to avoid this.
“Hopefully eating,” I say.
She laughs, waving her hands palms down over the table. “No. No. Nope. We don’t have dinner together.”
I slow my movements, but continue to sit anyway. “Is that the same thing as ‘can’t have dinner together’? Because I might have missed that in the rulebook.”
Her blue eyes narrow playfully as she watches me unroll my fork and knife from the paper napkin. “Please don’t make me regret sleeping with you.”
“Technically, we didn’t sleep. Remember that time we had sex on my couch, though?” I ask, pulling a large tortilla chip free of the pile. “That was pretty awesome.”
“Yes,” she agrees, pointing an accusing finger at me. “We did have sex on your couch, but—”
“And the floor.”
“And the floor,” she concedes with an eye roll. “But would—”
“And then back on the couch again.”
She sighs, eyebrows raised as if she’s making sure I’m done interrupting. I give her a tiny nod.
“Wouldn’t it just be a lot easier if we avoided each other from here on out?” she asks.
I nod as I swallow, unfamiliar with being on the receiving end of this particular conversation. “Probably.”
She stares me down. I stare back. Her eyes slowly—meaningfully—drop to my plate and then slide to the empty table next to us.
“Does this mean I shouldn’t expect any naked selfies later?” I ask. “Or even selfies of you in that bikini?”
“I think you get plenty of selfie texts as it is.”
As if to prove her point, my phone buzzes near my water bottle and London smiles, dimples flashing victoriously.
Planting my elbows on the table, I lean in, giving her my most earnest smile. “Look, Fresno—”
“Fresno. Amsterdam. You’re hilarious.”
“—I’m not going to make it weird. But all this worry about it being weird is going to make it weird. We’re in the same tiny restaurant. We’re grown-ups. It’s just food.” I pull a chip free and pop it in my mouth, chewing thoughtfully before saying, “Well, technically it’s just food with a guy who saw you naked a couple nights ago. But if you really want me to move, I will.”
She blinks away, and I can see a tiny flash of guilt cross her features. I’ve seen London interact with other people—she’s bubbly, she cracks jokes and wears a constant smile—so I know this shell she’s built around herself is really about guys and romance, not because she’s an asshole.
At least, not really.
Looking back at me, she narrows her eyes a little as she studies me, and then bursts out laughing. “You have a giant black bean stuck to your front tooth.”
Now that she’s pointed it out, I can feel it. I grin wider, all teeth. “I have to do something to reduce my attractiveness to the ladies. It can’t be full steam all the time.”
London giggles at this as she takes a bite of her fries. “You’re insane.”
I lean in, and she laughs harder. “Can you believe this is the face of a man who, two nights ago, happily gave you four orgasms?”
She looks up at me, mouth straightening as the memory of our night together causes her cheeks to flush. “Three.”
I pull the bean off my tooth and lean back in my chair, staring at her. Waiting. I remember each of her orgasms distinctly—the sharp cry one, the gasping one, the oh-fuck-oh-my-fucking-God one, and the sweaty, unintelligible begging one—so I know she is full of shit.
“Okay, maybe four,” she says with a little wave of her hand. And then she looks back up at me, brows drawn. “What’s your point?”
I shake my head. “I don’t have a point. I—”
“I mean, seriously.” She’s flustered now, blushing hotly. “What is your point? What is the point of”—she gestures up and down my body—“of all this? The fancy suit and shiny shoes and the fucking hair.”
“I just got off work!” I bite back a laugh. “Wait, what is the point of my hair?”
“And that smile? You’re . . . just . . .” She digs around for the right word, finally coming up with “absurd.” And I don’t know what it is about that word, but it thrills me. Seeing her pretend to be disgusted with me makes me oddly giddy.
“I don’t think I know what you mean by ‘absurd,’ ” I goad her.
“You’re banging different women every night—”
“Not every night.”
And here we go. Composed London is unraveling. “Did you always want to be the stereotype?”
“The straight-A, water polo player turned pre-law? Yeah, rough path. Scare me straight already.”
She leans to the side, scanning the parking lot. “Do you drive a Hummer?”
“I drove you home in my Prius,” I remind her.
She snorts. “You had a condom in your pocket.”
“I wouldn’t judge you if you had a condom in your pocket,” I volley back.
Her eyes narrow. I have a point and she knows it.
“And I would have been happy to play video games all night,” I add.