Aside from the cleavage, it’s not an outfit designed to attract a man’s attention—it’s a little too fluffy, too girly, too quirky in a way that reminds me of my sister playing dress up in our mother’s closet when we were kids—and that’s precisely why it draws my eye.
It says more than look at me.
It says she’s a woman who knows what she likes, what she wants. Seeing as I’m a man who also knows what he wants—a woman who’s as smart and independent as she is sexy—I don’t plan on letting this one out of my sight tonight.
“But if you don’t want to go cube to cube, we could always play Scrabble, instead,” I suggest. “Keep things friendly.”
She leans a little closer and brings her finger to her lips. “Shh. Don’t tell anyone, but I’m absolutely down for a game of dirty Scrabble, but only if you show me what you can do with these first,” she says, casting a pointed glance down to my hands.
Hell, yes. The game is on, and it’s exactly the kind of game I live to play.
I knock back the rest of my Scotch. “I’d love to show you. Any chance you’d like to be my partner in the Rubik’s Cube tournament?”
With narrow eyes, she shoots back, “Maybe. But how do I know you won’t be the weak link?”
I step closer, hooking a finger gently in one of her curls. “There’s nothing weak about me, love.”
She shudders. Her breath catches. “All right. Let’s go add your name to my team. I signed up for the second heat.”
“Perfect.” I extend a hand and add, “I’m West, by the way.”
When she takes my hand, something shivers up my arm. I don’t want to say a spark zaps between us. A spark is just static electricity, and static electricity is unpleasant. But touching this gorgeous woman, even for something as pedestrian as a handshake, is…electric.
“I’m Gigi,” she purrs.
I eye her up and down once more. Her purple dress. Her shoes decorated with comic-book drawings of Wonder Woman, Cat Girl and a mélange of female superheroes. The apple pie charm necklace that rests between the tops of her breasts. “You couldn’t be anything but a Gigi.”
She flashes an absolutely fantastic grin that makes my skin sizzle. “You get me, I think.”
Even this woman’s smile turns me on.
Whatever game we’re playing right now, she’s winning and that’s fine by me.
Her fingers fly as she leads off the first round for our team of two, starting by lining up the white center then twisting with rocket speed to make a white cross.
Naturally. That’s the only way to start.
She shifts another threesome clockwise, then the next one counterclockwise. I glance at the timer, where the second hand ticks mercilessly.
“Go on—you’ve got this,” I say.
But she needs no encouragement. She’s a natural, and I’m enthralled with her play.
Her moves are mesmerizing, her fingers a blur, her eyes intensely focused. In forty-five seconds, the puzzle is gorgeously solid on all six sides. Gigi thrusts it victoriously above her head, then sets it down on the gaming table, smugly triumphant.
“Done. In less than a minute,” she says with a flutter of her long lashes.
I high-five her, since that’s what you do here in the States. “Nothing sexier than that.”
She arches a brow. “Really? Nothing? Are you sure about that, West?”
Oh, she gives good dirty banter, and I lower my voice to a smoky whisper. “Right. You have me there. Nothing sexier…with clothes on, anyway.”
“I beg to differ.” She shrugs one bare shoulder, in a deliciously coquettish move. “Sometimes it’s even more fun with clothes on, shoved aside because you just can’t wait those few extra minutes…”
A groan escapes my lips. This woman owns her sexuality, no doubt about it.
I clear my throat. “I concede. That is sexier.” I hold her gaze for a second, savoring the glimmer in her eyes—the invitation written clearly in them.
But the moment ends when the game master shouts. “Teams four, eight, twelve, sixteen, eighteen, twenty-one, twenty-three, and twenty-six—congratulations, you will advance to round two.”
He slams the bell and it’s my turn.
Wasting no time, I grab the next cube on the edge of the stage in front of us. The pattern of colored squares may seem frustratingly random, but I see possibilities and permutations, and they unfurl before my eyes. I tackle the cube as I have since I was a kid. Intent on the puzzle, I move the sections around and around, making the orange face, the red one, and so on. In fifty seconds, I’m done.
“Wow,” Gigi breathes.
“I told you.” I blow on my fingers. “Under a minute.”
She hums appreciatively. “And to think I doubted you.”
“Did you really?”
She spreads her hands in front of her, a shrug of admission. “Men like to brag, West, but don’t always come through. But looks like you deliver the goods.”
Delivering the goods is exactly what I’d like to do with this puzzle-solving, bustier-wearing spitfire of a woman.
“What do you say we lay a wager on the next round?” I ask. “See which one of us solves it faster.”
She arches a brow, seeming intrigued. “What exactly do you have in mind, Mr. Sexy English Cuber Magic Hand Man?”
And that seals the deal for me. Any woman who can make a seven-word nickname sound that sexy isn’t one you let slip through your fingers.
“I lose, I buy you a drink at the bar down the street.”
She cocks her head. “And if I win?”
“I buy you a drink at the bar down the street.”
“Well, it sounds like I’ve already won, then,” she says with a slow smile.
Or maybe…we both have.
3
Gigi
There has to be something terribly wrong with this man.
He’s probably an axe murderer.
Or he eats sardines for every meal.
Or he trims his toenails with his teeth.
Whatever it is, it must be truly heinous. There’s no other explanation for why this buff, bearded, brilliant, and naughty man hasn’t already been snapped up by an equally magnificent woman.
Or maybe he’s just a serial cheater and a commitment-phobe like all the other men you liked enough to go out with more than once.
Like Nelson, a Manhattan divorce attorney who barked orders at his minions but whispered sweet nothings to me. I stupidly ignored his I-treat-underlings-odiously side. Should have listened to my gut, since he turned out to be odious on every side. Not only did he refuse to ever come to Brooklyn to see me, he also cheated with a client of his, a woman who owns a button shop in the East Village where I sometimes ventured when I needed the perfect button for a vintage ensemble.
Suffice it to say, I do not frequent her shop anymore.
But Odious Nelson and his Buttonista are the past, and I mean to enjoy the hell out of my present.
Meeting West’s gaze over our Scrabble board, I smile. Silly brain, it doesn’t matter what’s wrong with him or if he lives to cheat.