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My teeth take a tiny bite out of my bottom lip, an action I know will get him grumbling.
And groaning.
And it does.
“I’m gonna tell Park to turn the cameras off and then shut my phone down.”
Once I nod in comprehension, he proceeds to complete the task while I let my gaze casually roam around the room, mainly scouting the “cards” I’ve been dealt. “Your dad was the classic car aficionado – you still owe me a ride in that Shelby – and your mom had a slight Parisian obsession – hence all the gold mirrors according to this chick I used to bartend with at Night Heat – and you are the sexy nerd of the family – because you collect comic books,” the off the cuff listing leads my gaze back to him, “however, you have this beautiful and extensive aquarium setup, which has me wondering who in the Wilcox clan had a secondary hobby they didn’t speak of.”
“Clark.” He flashes his cell to display its shutdown position. “This has always been his sanctuary.”
“I knew I liked him.”
“He’s done most of the day-to-day tending himself for as long as I can remember.” The device is abandoned on the couch that’s dividing us. “Recently, Penny’s shown interest. He’s allowed her to order a couple of additions as well as to assist in the daily maintaining when she’s available.”
“You mean when she’s not spitting in the cup of tea that she later offers to me?”
“She doesn’t spit in your tea.”
“But she fucking thinks about it.”
Rather than agree with my conclusion, he merely laughs.
Rolls his eyes.
Shakes his head and motions an open palm in my direction. “What’s your opening bet?”
“My top.”
Wes helps himself to an eyeful of my blue tank top that stops right above my bellybutton. “I see your top and I call.”
“Pussy.”
“For betting safely?” is asked around airy laughs.
“Yeah.” I wind my hand around the edge of the couch so that our frames are closer together. “There’s no fun in always flying at chill speeds, Wes. Sometimes you gotta throw that baby into warp drive.”
“If I invest in the Star Trek franchise itself, will you make less reference or more?”
The teasing jab receives a mirth-filled glare. “See your pretty electric blue lobster – which isn’t actually a lobster but a crayfish – that’s pretty much segregated to his own tank in the far left corner?”
“I do.”
“We’re gonna set aside the fact you didn’t know he wasn’t a lobster – freshwater would actually be a death sentence for those – to impress you by saying there are two types of blue crayfish. Monongahela crayfish – native to the PA area yet not the only place they’re found – and the Everglades crayfish – only found in the Florida region – the latter being the one you have over there.”
His jaw instantly tumbles to the floor.
“I may have skipped study group a time or twelve to piss off a sorority girl or eight by proving I was better at chugging beer than they were at cock, but make no mistake, Mr. Wilcox.” An arrogant, unmovable smirk slips into place. “I know my shit.” There’s no hesitation to tug on the baggie hoodie. “Top off.”
Completely lost in bafflement, Wes simply shakes his head, tries to stifle his impressed grunt, and ditches the article of clothing on the floor.
The instant our eyes connect again, I tease, “Care to wager first this time?”
“My shirt.”
“I see your shirt and raise you, my shirt and bra.”
“I don’t have a bra to match that bet.”
