Jock Royal (Jock Hard 4)

He looks at me surprised. “That…is so random.”

It is. “Pick one.”

“Easy—a toe. But I don’t really use many of my fingers anyway. What about you?”

“One hundred percent a toe.” I pause. “Wait—do I get to choose which toe, or will the mob be choosing for me?”

“Um, this was your question—but the mob will make that a harder choice with the addendum: they pick the toe but you get to pick the finger.”

Oh, that does spice things up.

“I’m still going with a toe. I can wear close-toed shoes, or if I’m feeling particularly sassy, I’ll get out my mob-amputated toe, pull up my pant leg, and force everyone to see it.”

“Are you in a shady Italian restaurant with your toe now? This whole scenario seems really extreme. You took it to another level.”

“I felt like it warranted more detail.”

He watches me over his pint glass. “I had no idea you were like this.”

“There’s a lot about me you don’t know.”

“Apparently.”

Beneath the table, I bob my foot. “Your turn to ask a question.”

It takes him a few moments. He’s silent while he thinks, but eventually he says, “Okay. Would you rather go to prison for six months, or be in a coma for an entire year?”

Oh, good question—I like it. “Prison.”

“You answered that really fast. No hesitations?”

I drink some wine. “No. I’ll just use the time to write a memoir, depending on my commissary allowance and access to notebooks.”

He nods. “I could keep money in your commissary account as long as you maintained the ‘We’ll be together when you’re finally free’ illusion. Then when you get out, I’ll tell you you’ve changed.”

“Well yeah, prison is going to change me. I’m harder now—I’ve seen too much on the inside.”

I shoot him a smile, and he laughs. “You’re a weirdo.”

“Am I?” My shoulders give a careless shrug. “What about you? Prison or coma?”

“Coma, then I wouldn’t have to remember a thing about the time that’s passed.”

“But what if you wake up and have amnesia?”

“And have to learn everything all over again…” He plays along.

“And I pretend to be your fiancée even though we’ve never gone out a day in our lives, and you take me home to your family.”

“How will I remember my family if I have amnesia?”

“From the pictures in your wallet.”

Ashley laughs. “No one has pictures in their wallet.”

“My dad has a picture of me—a small two-by-three—in his wallet from when I was in fifth grade, buck teeth and braids. That’s the only way they could show off their photo gallery back in the day.”

“So one of your demands as my fake fiancée is that I keep your photo in my wallet?”

“Well, obviously we’d have to go get a few taken. Print off some selfies at the pharmacy.”

“Specifically in the likely event that I’m going to slip into this mysterious coma and need it to identify you.”

“Exactly. Ergo, we’d have to take a few to print them off for your wallet.”

“You said all that with the sole purpose of using the word ‘ergo’ in a sentence.” He rolls his eyes at me. “Fine. Let’s take a selfie.”

Now? “Here?”

“Don’t girls like taking selfies wherever and whenever they fancy?”

“Most of them.”

Ashley raises his shoulders.

I stare, blinking—inhaling a breath before pushing back my chair and rising from the table, hobbling over to stand next to him with my phone.

I hand it to him after poking open the camera. “Here, you take it. Your arms are longer.”

“Pity’s sake,” he grumbles, sounding ever so British.

I squat behind him and smile, not sure what to do with my hands. It would make a better photograph if I had my hands on him somewhere, his shoulders or…

“Maybe get closer,” he instructs in that deep voice.

I move closer, face next to his, boobs almost falling out of my dress, smile thanks to the wine.

One whiff of him fills my nose with aftershave and spice and whatever deodorant he’s wearing, making me want to plop down in his lap—or kiss the back of his neck.

Touch him.

Ash has gotten his hair cut, and his stubble isn’t shaven but he’s cleaned it up.

He looks rough and handsomely rugged and smells divine.

Like a hunky athlete.

He snaps a few more pictures and I pull a goofy face before returning to my seat next to him. Drink most of the wine in my glass out of frustration—I’m making this weirder than it has to be.

Stop overthinking it.

Have fun.

Be fun.

Be flirty.

I smile across the table at him when he returns his gaze to me, but I can’t for the life of me tell what might be going on inside his mind.

“Is keeping a neutral expression on your face one of the things you learned at school?”

“Pardon?”

Oh god, why the hell would I ask a thing like that?

“Your face—I can’t tell what you’re thinking.”

Ashley is quiet for a few more moments, lips parting as he gathers his thoughts. Takes a sip of his beer. Leans back casually in his seat, resting his elbows on the arm rest.