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I let my arm brush his back. The soft linen of his shirt against his bare skin.
Why does he look so good in that short-sleeved linen button-up and slacks? He should look like a dork, but he looks hot as fuck.
He always wears white, and he's never got a stain.
He defies logic.
"How does that work?" I ask. "I promise not to make fun of you for watchingMurder, She Wrote. You promise not to call me a fuddy duddy."
"Something like that."
"Is a handshake deal sufficient?"
"No. But it will have to do." He holds out his hand.
I shake. "Maybe this is what we'll do while we're looking for conquests. See who can have more fun."
"A wing-woman war?" he asks.
"Exactly," I say. "We keep an eye out for prospective partners while showing off our amazing, fun personalities."
"And how do we do that?"
"The way you do everything," I say.
He raises a brow.
"With rules and structure."
His lips curl into a knowing smile. "And what are those?"
"You know what Zack is going to do tonight?"
"How much time do you have?" he asks.
"One thing," I say. "He'll play truth or dare. So why don't we start now. Truth or dare. Only fun people always pick dare."
His eyes meet mine. "Why not call it dare or dare?"
"The option is important." I hold his gaze. I drop my voice to the most carefree tone I can muster. And I start. "Truth or dare?"
Chapter Eight
Jackson
Daphne's eyes stay fixed on me. She brushes a light, wavy strand behind her ear, but the lock defies her. It falls back in front of her face, drawing my eye all the way to her chest.
Okay, maybe I can't blame her long hair for drawing my eyes to certain areas. Daphne is a beautiful woman with a fantastic figure.
Those are facts.
The strong shoulders, the firm breasts, the curves of her waist and hips, the long lines of her legs—
There's no denying this. Or her sharp features. She's not girl-next-door pretty. She's beautiful in the way models are. She's striking.
That's a dare.
A fan-fucking-tastic dare.
