“That sounds easy enough.” Now I’m grumbling like a baby.
“How full is that bottle?” She laughs again, already sounding tipsy.
“Full enough—unless you plan to pass on all the questions, then we’ll have a problem because I didn’t see another bottle lurking anywhere.”
Except the mini bar, and I’m not too keen on pilfering that supply unless it’s an emergency. I’ve seen what liquor from inside those things cost, and I highly doubt Georgia would be cool with paying that. I also doubt it’s complimentary as part of the prize.
“You go first,” she tells me, a little drunk with power.
“No—it was your idea, you go first.”
“Ugh,” she huffs. “Let me think for a second.”
I hope she starts with an easy one, eases into the hard questions I’m certain she’s going to hit me with. She might look innocent and unassuming, but behind those pretty eyes lies a mind I’m realizing is extremely complicated.
There are things on that mind she wants to talk to me about, and these dumb games are the only way she knows how to do it without feeling foolish.
“Okay don’t forget—you have to answer honestly or drink.”
“Yeah, yeah. Quit stalling.”
On the horizon, millions of lights twinkle and glow. The fake Eiffel Tower of a nearby hotel begins to flicker, just like the real one in Paris does every night for an hour.
I’ve seen the real deal with my own eyes—this little one is no comparison.
“Do you ever regret coming to the States for school?”
“No,” I answer without hesitation. “I like it here.”
“Like it, or love it?”
I cock my head. “Don’t be greedy—it’s my turn to ask a question. You’ll have to save that for your next one if you want to know.”
Her mouth drops open at my cheeky retort.
I smirk. “Are we allowed to drink if we’re not drinking to pass on a question?”
She shrugs. “I don’t think so. Wait—is that your question?”
“No, I was just wondering.”
“I think no, or we’ll run out.”
“Maybe, maybe not—I don’t plan to pass. I’m going balls to the walls on this one.”
“Ooo, is that so? Okay tough guy, we’ll see.”
The sound of a helicopter chopping through the air distracts us both for a second, and we watch as one comes around the corner of the hotel, flies toward a different hotel, and hovers near the roof before lowering itself.
“That is so cool,” Georgia says breathlessly, leaning both elbows on the side of the hot tub to watch.
I agree. “I love watching planes land and take off at the runway,” I say. “I wish they’d let people park near the runway—wouldn’t it be neat to lie on top of a car and just stare up and watch them fly over?”
“That would be a fun first date, wouldn’t it? Like, a picnic on top of the car or in the bed of a truck?”
“Are you a romantic, Georgia Parker?”
She looks at me, surprised. “Uh, yeah? Aren’t most girls hopeless romantics?”
My mother’s not.
Caroline, Jack’s girlfriend, isn’t. She will always give him a list of gifts she wants, hates the element of surprise (or maybe doesn’t trust him to buy her what she wants). Either way, she’s a spoiled brat and not at all romantic.
I shake my head. “You don’t seem like the type of bird who’s romantic.”
“I don’t?” Her face scrunches up in confusion. “Maybe that’s just because you don’t see me like that—I’m just your roommate, and in the few weeks I’ve lived with you, I haven’t gone on any dates or anything so you’ve never seen me like…all dolled up and stuff.”
“You were dolled up tonight.”
Her nod is slow. “I was. But it wasn’t a date. I mean—it was, but not a romantic date.”
Her statement is followed by a long, stroppy pause, the night air punctuated by sounds from below and a few shouting voices from people celebrating nearby in another hotel room.
Far be it from me to point out that the date wasn’t romantic because she kept inserting her foot into her mouth by letting everyone who approached our table know we weren’t a couple, it wasn’t a date, it wasn’t a special occasion.
Georgia may be many things, but subtle isn’t one of them.
She’s tripping all over the situation like a bull in a glass shop.
“You keep pointing that out.” I grind my teeth a bit. “For no reason.”
From my vantage point, I can see her lips press into an embarrassed line as she finally clamps her mouth shut.
“Is this part of the game, or should we keep going?” I’m losing my patience with her—this constant reminder that we’re nothing but roommates is all fine and well because it’s true, but it’s also growing tiresome.
“Whose turn is it?” Her voice barely carries across the hot tub.
“Mine.”
She nods quietly, and now I feel like a colossal arsehole.
Dammit!
Best make the question fun.
Okay. Fun question, fun question.