Page 35 of Flirting with Trouble

“Good evening. I have your room service.”

“I think you have the wrong suite. I didn’t order any food.”

He consults the receipt. “It was ordered by Wellington Silver. Is this not his room?”

My heart skips. “It’s not, but you have the right room after all. Thank you.” I step aside, and he rolls the cart in. I grab cash from my purse, thank him, and tip him on his way out.

I hurry back to the cart. The wine is Riesling, and as I uncover three dishes, I find a variety of sashimi, sushi, and rolls. Sushi and Scrabble? He must have listened to every little thing I said when we were together. I lift the cover off the last dish, and there in the middle of the plate is a delicious-looking pink-frosted cupcake.

Wells doesn’t chase women, huh?

Chapter Nine

Victory

Early Wednesday morning I’m pushing myself hard on the elliptical machine in the hotel gym as I thumb out the word PIQUED on WordLink.

I can hardly believe I have been spending all my free time playing this silly game with Wells, but it’s as fun and addicting as he is. We played Monday night until I could no longer keep my eyes open, and I woke up yesterday morning to another game invitation. The thing that shocks me the most is that I’m not only playing during my free time, but I’ve been fitting in turns between meetings, and my usual hyperfocused-on-work brain has become sidetracked, anxiously looking forward to each notification.

We played late again last night, and I woke up this morning excited for another game, which I know has less to do with the actual game than the man on the other end of the airwaves. I look forward to our banter as much as I do the challenge of the games.

Me: You’re going down!

WellsSpells: Is that an invitation?

It’s a struggle not to type yes. We’ve fallen into some sort of flirty friendship that feels safer and less guilt inducing than when we’re in the same physical space and can act on those impulses. Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself because I don’t want to stop playing or chatting with him. Although, when he texted me a picture of himself standing on the beach this morning, one arm around a surfboard, his hair wet, his wet suit stripped down to his waist, and his bare chest glistening in the sun, my thoughts were anything but safe.

Me: You wish.

A devil emoji pops up.

WellsSpells: Still on the elliptical?

Me: Yes. Two more minutes.

I take a selfie and send it to him.

He sends a flame and a heart-eyed emoji.

WellsSpells: It should be illegal to be that beautiful at 6 in the morning.

I look at the picture I sent. There’s sweat dripping down my face. I forgot to pin my hair up before leaving my hotel room, and it’s a mess, with several strands stuck to my cheek and neck, which makes his compliment feel even bigger.

Me: Always the charmer.

He plays CLIMAX.

Me: Now I know you’re rigging our games.

WellsSpells: Why?

Me: Climax?! Really?

WellsSpells: You’re the one who told me I should read more. The climax is the high point of a story.

Me: If I believe that’s how you meant it, will you sell me a unicorn, too?

WellsSpells: Geez, Braden. What did you think I meant?