Page 25 of The Game We Played

I hadn’t noticed her feet. But now I can’t stop noticing how cute they are. I rub a hand down my face. This is not me. I don’t get obsessed with women. I have fun, play a little, and then I’m on my way. Before I can get involved and realize they aren’t trustworthy.

For reasons I can’t understand, I don’t want to be on my way with Alaia. I want to stick around.

“And I need to finish my make-up.”

I sigh and make my way to her sofa. “I’ll be waiting.”

“I won’t be long,” she hollers as she rushes to the hallway.

“Sure, you won’t.” I know women. They need time.

While I wait, I study her apartment. It’s not what I expected from the outside. It’s warm and cozy. Books fill every possible space – on the floor, on the side tables, in the bookcase. And the walls are decorated with pictures of the beach.

One wall has several images of people. I stand to inspect them closer. Guessing by the two women who are identical, these are pictures of her family.

Alaia breezes back into the room. She points to the top picture. “This is my mom and dad.”

“He looks familiar.”

“You’ve probably heard of him. Dan Jackson. He’s a photojournalist and has commented on the news a few times.”

“You’re related to Dan Jackson?”

“I’m pretty certain I am, considering he photographed my birth.”

I recoil. “He photographed your birth?”

“Yep. He photographed the twins’ birth, too. My poor mom’s vagina has been on display in museums all over the world.”

I shiver, and she barks out a laugh. “This is exactly how all my boyfriends have reacted to the news.”

“Sorry, it’s…” I trail off before I say her mom’s vagina is unattractive. I don’t think discussing vaginas is first date material.

She snatches a scarf from the back of a chair. “I’m ready.”

I escort her out of her apartment, down the stairs, and to my car, where I open the passenger door for her.

“You’re a gentleman. Surprising. I should fake date NFL players more often.”

A surge of unexpected jealousy arises and I growl. “No fake dating any men while we’re involved.”

Fuck. What am I saying? What am I doing? I don’t get jealous.

Before I can claim I was joking, she snaps out a salute. “Yes, sir!”

“Smart ass,” I mutter as I shut her door.

“You have a nice place,” I say once we’re driving.

She snorts. “Why do you sound surprised?”

“The building isn’t exactly…” I pause. I’m not saying her place is a dump. I can think it. But I’m not saying it.

“It’s not what? There’s nothing wrong with my building. The grass is mowed every week. There aren’t any weeds in the cracks of the sidewalk. All the lights work. The elevator broke once and it was fixed within hours. A cleaner comes and mopsthe stairs and hallways once a week. There’s security to get in and out. What exactly is wrong with it?”

I cringe. “I didn’t realize.”

“Didn’t realize?” She crosses her arms over her chest and glares at me. “How can you not realize? How can you think the building is anything other than a nice, small apartment building?”