“And you made a face when Buttercup pushed Westley down the hill.”
“She pushed him down a hill! After he came back from the dead! That’s cold.”
I’m grinning. Can’t help it.
Enzo catches my expression. “What?” he asks.
“Nothing. You’re just...” I search for words. “Not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“Scary. Silent. Definitely not someone who has opinions about fairy tale movies.”
“I have opinions about a lot of things.” He sits up slightly. “I just don’t usually say them out loud. Nobody listens when you talk with fists.”
The admission is quiet. Vulnerable.
I think about what he said, I’ve never done this. Whatever this is, and I realize he means it. Not just the witness protection situation. The whole thing. Having someone to eat pizza with. Watch movies with. Talk to about stupid things that don’t matter.
“Well,” I say, “you can tell me your opinions anytime. Even the wrong ones.”
“My opinions aren’t wrong.”
“You just said The Princess Bride is ridiculous.”
“It IS ridiculous.”
“It’s a masterpiece.”
“It’s a masterpiece of ridiculousness.”
I throw a pillow at him because that’s the only way I know how to flirt without mounting someone.
He catches it. Easily. Like his reflexes are tuned for projectiles. Then he throws it back.
It hits me in the face.
“Oh, that’s how it is?” I grab the pillow. Launch myself at him.
We tussle. Stupid. Childish. I’m trying to smother him with a pillow and he’s laughing, full and unguarded, while fending me off with one hand.
I end up pinned. His hands around my wrists. My back against the couch cushions. Him hovering over me, breathing hard, grinning like he forgot for a second he’s a professional killer.
We both freeze.
The playfulness shifts into something charged.
He’s so close. I can see the flecks of gold in his caramel eyes. The scar on his cheekbone. The way his lips are slightly parted.
I’m one half-inch from grinding on his thigh and moaning into his mouth like.
“Stevie,” he says quietly.
“Yeah?”
He doesn’t answer. Just looks at me like he’s trying to decide something. Then he lets go of my wrists. Sits back. Puts space between us.
“I should go,” he says. “Before I do something stupid.”
