I thought about that. “But don’t you think it’s possible to know that something or someone would always make you happy?”
“To know it for sure?” She thought for a second, her green eyes serious. “No. I don’t. Do you?”
“Sure, I do. I mean, I’ve never experienced it for myself, but I have faith it exists.”
She gave me a patronizing smile, as if I’d just told her I still believed in Santa Claus. “That’s so cute.”
“OK. I’ll prove it.”
“Prove what?”
“I’ll show you that real love exists. I’ll make you believe.”
She stood up, her smile gone. “Really, that’s not necessary.”
“Scared to take the bet?”
“I’m not scared of anything! I just don’t think there’s any way to prove what you’re saying.”
“Chicken.”
She started for the door. “I have to go upstairs for a minute.”
I jumped off the couch and pushed the door closed when she tried to open it.
“Hey,” she said, annoyed.
“Come on. Dare me to prove love is real.”
She sighed, her expression pained. “No, Quinn, because you’ll only do stupid things to try and make me fall for you, and I’ll just get annoyed. The sex was so great today. This could be fun between us. Let’s not ruin it.”
I smiled. “I swear I will not do anything to make you fall for me—unless giving you a lot of orgasms is on that list. Because that, I’m going to do.”
Her jaw dropped for a second, and then she gave me a flirty smile. “OK then. I dare you.”
Ten
JAIME
I hurried up the stairs to my flat, buoyed by the phrase “giving you a lot of orgasms.” Damn, that sounded good.
In fact, the more I thought about it, this whole setup was fantastic.
I had the hottest piece of ass ever living right downstairs, and he clearly understood my boundaries, even if he’d made fun of them.
Whatever—he’d thank me when it was time for him to move out and our little fling had run its course. A month was perfect! That’s about as long as I liked my fuck flings to last anyway. Any longer and you were looking at relationship status, which was no good, because it led to expectations and resentment, the inevitable accusations and accompanying guilt, and finally the tragic ending.
Fuck that—I was saving us both from a stupid breakup fight that would make Owens family functions awkward for years to come if he stuck around here.
We’d have unattached, meaningless yet magnificent sex for a few weeks, and then get out of each other’s way. It was perfect…as long as he didn’t try to fuck it up. I was a little worried about those dates he wanted, because I wasn’t totally convinced he wouldn’t try to muddy the waters with hearts and flowers, which would completely kill my lady boner and ruin the fun.
And what about the whole “I can prove love exists” thing? Was he nuts? There was no way on Earth to prove that love either did or didn’t exist, was there? What the hell was he going to do? For heaven’s sake, look at the home he’d come from—his father had abandoned his mother when he was just a baby. What had that taught him about romantic love?
I didn’t really have a reason for coming up to my flat, I’d just wanted to exit the conversation, but since I was up here, I used my own bathroom, changed underwear, and grabbed another bottle of red from the rack before heading back downstairs. Quinn was on the couch again, checking his phone. Was it possible he looked even more delicious since he’d said the thing about more orgasms? When would those begin? Before or after the homemade pizza?
Sex and pizza. God, my life is amazing right now.
“How’s your harem today?” I went into the kitchen, peeked at the rising dough, and left the wine on the counter. “They like your early morning bathroom selfie with the bedhead hair?”
“They did, indeed. More than five thousand of them.”
“Don’t you ever feel weird about posting so many pictures of yourself?” I came back into the living room, noticing that he’d closed the curtains. I sat a little closer to him.
“Sometimes,” he said, setting his phone on the table. “But I also get a lot of messages from people who say that my pictures inspire them to eat healthier or exercise more or set a fitness goal for themselves. Those are good things.”
“Ah, so you’re doing it for them,” I teased, poking him in the side, “not for your own ego. It’s purely altruistic, all the shirtless muscle pics.”
He tackled me, throwing me onto my back and covering my body with his. “You’re awful, you know that? Quit making fun of me, or I will excessively cuddle you to death.”
“No, no, anything but that,” I said, giggling. But I slipped my hands inside his shirt, rubbed them up and down the smooth, warm skin on his back.
He looked down at me with a glint in his eye. “Or maybe I’ll tease you about the red bikini night, Miss I Don’t Talk About Feelings.”
I gasped. “You wouldn’t.”
“Oh no?”
Something clicked, and I saw it as an opportunity to derail. “Hey…you remember what I was wearing?”
“Of course I do.” He kissed me, but it wasn’t like the first time, in his room. This one was softer and sweeter, and allowed me to better appreciate the firm fullness of his lips, the taste of the wine on his tongue. He picked up his head. “Some things are unforgettable.”