LIES

"I'll go first."

"Why do you get to go first?"

I ignore his question, clearing my throat and making my voice serious. "Okay, here goes." I tick off my truths on my fingers as I speak. "My middle name is so embarrassing I never tell anyone — even my closest friends. When I was sixteen, I was arrested for climbing the town water tower on a dare, but the police chief decided not to press charges because he thought my mom was hot. And, when I go out on dates or am invited over to someone's place for dinner, sometimes I pretend I'm allergic to broccoli just to get out of eating it."

By the time I'm done, he's shaking his head in amusement. "You're not going to make this easy on me."

"Nope." I narrow my eyes. "I play to win, too."

He inclines his head in acknowledgement. "Good to know."

"You'll never guess it right."

"I don't have to guess." A slow grin spreads across his face. "I already know."

"Big words, Yoda." Total nerd that I am, I contort my voice to resemble the small green Jedi's, not above making myself look like a fool if it means distracting him. "Like to see the follow through, would I."

He grins wider. "Did you just do Yoda-speak?"

"Absolutely not."

"The water tower story — that's your lie."

My mouth falls open. "How did you know?"

He doesn't answer, not about to reveal his secrets and give me an edge.

"I really was arrested for climbing that damn thing." I sigh. "But the police chief didn't think my mom was hot, he was just a nice guy, so he let me go."

"Point one goes to the cocky bastard," he says softly. "My turn?"

I nod.

"I've been to thirty-six countries. I'm fluent in Spanish and Italian, though my French is passable, as well. And I like pancakes, but hate waffles."

"The first one," I say immediately. "No one's been to thirty-six countries."

"You're right. I've been to thirty-seven."

I stare at him for a beat, not knowing what to make of that statement, so instead I just say, "Wait, you hate waffles?"

He chuckles. "Is that a problem?"

"Um, yes." I make my eyes bug out. "Only Satan hates waffles."

"Maybe I'm the devil."

He says it like a joke, but his eyes are so serious it makes me nervous.

"Okay, the score's tied, one-one. My turn." I swallow hard, racking my brain for a good lie. "My favorite flower is the hyacinth. I think the word moist is the grossest in the English language, if you're using it in any context except to describe cupcakes. And I believe there's a special ring in hell for people who don't use their directionals while switching lanes."

His eyes work with thoughts for a few seconds as he weighs my words.

"Hyacinths," he says finally.

"Ugh!" I screech. "You really are Satan, you know that?"

He grins. "What are your actual favorites?"

"Peonies. The great, big, puffy ones that fall apart after about a nanosecond."

His eyes go soft around the edges and he looks like he's storing that fact away in the steel vault that is his mind. "My turn again. And, Gemma, just in case you forgot..." His voice drops low. "I'm winning."

I cross my arms over my chest and glare at him. "For now."

He chuckles again, the sound rich and warm coming from his throat. "All right, here goes. I hate text messages — they're more annoying than mosquitos. I surf, ski, and rock climb whenever I get the chance, which isn't often. And I have a golden retriever named Charlie."

"You so don't have a golden retriever." I snort. "And, if you did, his name would definitely not be Charlie."

"How do you know?"

I look him up and down. "People who've traveled to thirty-six — sorry, thirty-seven — countries don't have pets. And besides, you just don't seem like a dog person, what with that ginormous stick up your butt, and all."

He narrows his eyes, at that.

"I bet you've never even had a pet goldfish." I grin when he doesn't contradict me. "I'm right, aren't I?"

A grudging nod confirms it.

"Sweet!" I pump one fist into the air, victorious. "Two-two. My turn, again." I pause. "Okay, I've got one."

He lifts an eyebrow, waiting.

"All my friends are married, with varying degrees of success. I can't cook anything, and I do mean anything – even, like, scrambled eggs or toast. And once, in college, I dressed up as Princess Leia for Halloween, with the gold bikini, the hair-buns, and everything."

He takes a moment to think, his eyes dark with curiosity and amusement. "Do you still have the costume?"

"Are you trying to cheat?"

"Gemma, everyone can make scrambled eggs. It's biologically programmed into you from birth." He grins when I make a face. "So, back to the costume..."

I cross my arms over my chest. "It's your turn, again."

"Fine, fine." He chuckles. "I hate vanilla – the smell, the taste, everything about it. I drink my coffee black. And the first time I went kite-boarding, I broke two fingers in my right hand."

"No one hates vanilla. It's like, the most basic of all flavors."

"I do," he says, his smile widening. "Which means, you lose."

"No way! What's the lie, then?" My eyes widen. "Don't tell me – you secretly like loads of hazelnut creamer in your coffee."

He shakes his head. "Kite-boarding. I broke three fingers, not two."

"Oh, whatever." I swallow, nervous for the first time since we started playing. "I'll catch up. You'll see."

"Don't get too cocky." His fingers flex against the supple leather of his seat. "I only need one more to win. Unless you're ready to concede now, and head back to my apartment."

"No," I whisper roughly, all triumph stripped from my tone.

"Then you better think of a good lie," he says, eyes glittering with promise. "Because I have no intention of letting you off easy."

I begin to rub slow circles into my temple, hoping it might ease some of my sudden stress.

"Okay, um..."

"I'm waiting, Gemma."

Shit!

Shit, shit, shit.

Why did I ever think this was a good idea?

Probably because I'm unreasonably stubborn when I think I'm right... and, okay, I'm the first to admit that yes, I'm the kind of girl who likes to play with fire — waiting till the last minute to pay my bills, befriending random strangers on the train, driving cross-country in a car with 170,000 miles on the odometer and a failing exhaust system. Most of the time, I like flying through life by the seat of my pants. Going with the flow. Taking things as they come, and all that jazz.

No commitments. No responsibilities. No answering to anyone but me.

It's more fun, that way.

The only problem is, sometimes I land myself in situations like this, agreeing to crazy bets with sexy strangers who simultaneously tempt and terrify me. Twenty minutes ago, when this was all entirely hypothetical, it was fun. But now, with him looking at me like I'm one of Maria's fresh-baked cannoli — the kind so good, you devour it in two ravenous bites — it feels a little too real for my liking.

So real, in fact, that I'm starting to worry he's serious about taking me back to his apartment and having a wild night of emotionless, meaningless sex.

It shouldn't bother me. It's been so long since I had a decent orgasm, I should be begging him to have his wicked way with me. But, I can't. Because, well...

I like him.

Not in a doodle-your-name-in-my-notebook, listen-to-love-songs-that-remind-me-of-you, smile-to-myself-for-no-reason kind of way. I've never felt that way about anyone, and I'm not going to start now.

But, I do like him, in a normal, you're-a-cool-human kind of way.

And that means going on a date with him is pretty much out of the question.

As for sleeping with him... well, that's either the worst idea I've ever had... or the best.

"Gemma."

My eyes fly up to meet his, and I realize I've spaced out for several moments.

"Sorry." I clear my throat. "I'm ready now. I think. Almost."

He looks at me, recognizing the sudden shift in my mood from playful to pensive.

"Okay, here goes." My voice is wavering; I make a conscious effort to steady it. "I broke my leg when I was seventeen, when I fell off the back of a motorcycle, and it still aches whenever it rains. I'm left-handed. And the only thing in my refrigerator at the moment is wine, some expired orange juice, and a really old onion."

He's quiet for a long time, just looking at me, and the silence grows between us until it's so heavy, I can barely breathe. There's indecision in his eyes, but I can't decide whether it's there because he doesn't know the answer... or because he does, and he can't figure out whether he wants to use it.

"Gemma..."

My eyebrows lift at the medley of emotions in his voice — longing, reluctance, lust, restraint — and though all he's said is my name, I intuitively know what's coming.

Rejection.

For some ludicrous reason, I feel tears threatening to prick at my eyes. Which, honestly, is the most absurd thing in the history of things, because I don't cry. Ever.

Not at the end of The Notebook. Not at funerals. Not at weddings or baby showers or any other sob-inducing events.

I dismiss the unfamiliar sensation, chalking it up to temporary insanity, which has pretty much been the theme of my night.

I don't like-like boys. (Men. Whatever.)

I don't get butterflies.

I don't cry for no reason. (Heck, I don't even cry for good reasons.)

And yet...

I know it's crazy, stupid... but sitting here, waiting for him to speak, I almost feel like he can see straight through me, down to my soul. As though, somehow, amidst this game of lies, he's pushed though and found the heart of me, beating too-fast inside my chest — a wild, frothing animal trapped in a cage of ribs, made of flesh and blood and vulnerabilities I've never shared with anyone.

Like any good predator, he has an innate ability to root out weaknesses. He senses my wild, wounded heart with the ease of a shark smelling blood in the water from miles away, or a spider feeling the vibrations of its victim in a web long before it ever sets eyes on it.

It's an uneasy feeling. Edgy, uncomfortable, inexplicable. Like my skin's gone see-through, and he somehow knows all my secrets before I've ever voiced them.

His mouth opens, then snaps shut again, as though he's searching for the right words to let me down easy. As though I don't already know what he's going to say.

"Just say it," I whisper, unable to wait anymore. "The suspense is killing me."

"I can't do this."

"You can't guess the answer?"

"You're right handed, Gemma." He sighs. "But that's not what I mean."

"I don't understand."

"I can't do this with you."

My brow wrinkles in confusion as I wait for him to clarify.

"One night. No strings." He casts his eyes to the ceiling. "God help me, but I can't do it. Not with you."

"You're the one who set the terms." My voice is affronted, angry. "You're the one who put that idea on the table."

"I know. Christ, Gemma, I know that."

"So, what? You changed your mind? Decided I'm not hot enough for you?"

His eyes return to mine, narrowed with emotion. "You're gorgeous."

"Then what's it about?"

"I thought I could... But with you... It's just... I underestimated..."

He's tongue-tied.

This smooth-talking, Sun-Tzu-reading, control freak is actually at a loss for words, because of me. It should be endearing, but I'm too pissed to be endeared.

"Thanks," I drawl. "That really clears it up."

His eyes flash. "Gemma, this isn't about you — don't make it. It's all on me."

I snort. "Wow."

"Excuse me?"

"I didn't think you were the kind of guy who'd use the it's-not-you-it's-me line."

"It's not a line," he counters.

"Don't tell me — you're also working on yourself. Oh, and you'd like to still be friends."

"Gemma."

"What?" I snap. "It's not polite to get a girl all hot and bothered with the promise of a night of endless orgasms, and then back out. In fact, it's downright rude."

His gaze drops to my mouth as it fires angry words at him, and I see his eyes are dilated with desire and anger and a million other emotions I can't name.

"Whatever. I never would've gone through with it, anyway," I say, not sure whether my words are true or false. My eyes are smarting again, as inexplicable rejection courses through my system.

It's not lost on me that I'm more upset about the sexy green-eyed stranger turning me down than I was about breaking up with the only guy I've ever attempted to date.

God, what the hell is the matter with me?

(Don't answer that.)

His eyes are still on my mouth as he reaches blindly to his right and presses a button to activate the intercom. When he speaks, it isn't to me. "Evan?"

"Sir?"

"It's time to drop Gemma off, now."

"Yes, sir."

Seconds later, I feel the car turn, though I don't take my eyes off the man mere inches from me.

"If you're so eager to be rid of me, let me out here," I snap childishly. "I'll walk."

"No." A flat denial.

"You're annoying."

"You already told me that."

"Well, I meant it."

"Good," he says, his tone serious. "It'll make it easier for me to stay away from you."

I stare at him for a while, not knowing how to respond to that, until I finally summon courage I didn't even know I had, and whisper the question haunting my thoughts.

"What if I don't want you to stay away?"

His eyes flash dangerously. "You don't have a choice about it."

"I'm not some innocent, little girl you need to shield from the world," I tell him, my voice hushed. "And I'm not looking for love or romance or whatever bullshit you apparently think girls like me need." I lean closer to him. "You might think you've got me pegged, but you don't know anything about me. I'm not a relationship kind of girl. Ralph was the closest thing I've come to commitment and, well, you saw how that turned out."

His eyes flash again.

I lean closer. "Maybe I don't want to date you. Maybe I am interested in learning what not dating you looks like."

A threatening sound, almost like a growl, erupts from the back of his throat. "I already told you — I can't."

"You can. We can."

"You don't know what you're asking for."

One brazen word — a taunt — pops from my mouth before I can stop it.

"So?"

"You're playing with fire," he grits out. "Do you know what happens when sugar hits flame?"

I shake my head, barely listening as my eyes move over his chiseled face, its planes and angles stunning even in the dim light of the car. I can't stop myself from questioning what it would be like to kiss him again, from wondering what he'd do if I closed the gap between us and pressed my lips to his.

"It turns to ash." He growls again. "Gemma."

My dazed eyes drift up to his. "What?"

"Stop."

Registering the sheer steel in his tone, I sigh in resignation. He's not going to change his mind. He doesn't want me.

The realization should embarrass me, but for some reason, all I feel is crushing disappointment.

"Fine," I mutter, turning to look out the window.

Less than a minute later, we're pulling up outside Chrissy's building — an ancient, classic brownstone with flower boxes and picture windows.

"Thanks for the ride, Green Eyes," I say, shrugging out of his coat and casting one fleeting glance in his direction as my hand closes around the door handle.

Those very eyes widen slightly as they move over my face, as though they're memorizing my features. "Green Eyes?" he asks, amused.

"Well, I suppose I could've gone with knight-in-shining-town-car or destroyer-of-self-esteem, but neither of those quite roll off the tongue."

He shakes his head, his mouth twitching with amusement again, though his eyes are serious.

"Do something for me?"

My eyebrows lift.

"Don't keep the key to your apartment under the doormat, anymore. The thought of that asshole getting back into your place..." He trails off, his expression suddenly dark.

Before I can stop myself, I'm reaching out and laying a hand on his arm. His eyes jerk up to meet mine as soon as my cold fingers make contact with his skin, and I know he must feel it too — the static current that jolted through me as soon as I touched him.

It's eerie. Electric. I pretend not to notice it, though the charge seems to grow stronger the longer my hand rests on his arm.

"I won't," I promise gently, a little bit touched that this stranger cares more about my well being than the man I dated for the past four months ever did. "I promise."

He nods, a look I can't quite decipher in his eyes as he stares at me.

Before he can say another word or I can do something stupid, like throw myself at him again, I turn and slide out of the car, into the rain. Dashing for the brownstone entrance, I slam to a halt on the stairs when his voice reaches my ears.

"Gemma!"

I spin and see he's followed me out and is standing on the sidewalk, getting totally drenched in the downpour. His t-shirt is plastered to every contour of his muscular chest. I think I see the outline of a serious six-pack beneath the fabric, but it's hard to tell from this distance. And his eyes — they're burning into mine again. I feel that electricity charging the air around us once more, and he's not even touching me this time.

Uh oh.

"Gemma," he repeats, a little quieter this time. My eyes lift to his.

"Yeah?"

I'm frozen in place on the first step as he crosses the sidewalk and stops directly in front of me. With a full stair's height advantage, we're eye-to-eye for the first time. His gaze, from this distance, is so intense, it nearly swallows me whole. I don't feel the cold rain on my skin or the chilly breeze off the river — in fact, with his eyes on mine, I'm suddenly so warm I think I might combust.

It doesn't make any sense. I don't even know this person.

But I can't stop remembering how his lips felt against mine back at the stadium. I can't stop my eyes from dropping to linger on his mouth. And I can't stop the words that slip out in a thready whisper as I stare at his stunning, rain-covered face.

"Did you want something?"

My question is tremulous. When he doesn't answer, my gaze flies back to his. I somehow manage to keep it steady, unwavering, as he leans forward until our lips are mere centimeters apart.

"Yeah," he says gruffly, one of his hands reaching up to push a soaked strand of hair behind my ear. "Yeah, I did."

Before I can ask what, his lips slam down on mine once more.