She seems to consider this. “I can ask you anything?”

“Sure. As long as I can do the same.”

Her arms go to her sides and she moves to the bed and sits on the edge. Progress.

“Okay.”

I lob her a softball. “What’s your major?”

“Screenwriting. Yours?”

“Communications,” I answer and then fire back to keep the game going. “What made you decide to come out tonight?”

She shrugs. “Tabitha invited me out.”

“Yeah, okay, but I’ve never seen you out so why tonight and not before?”

Her lips part and her chest rises and falls before she answers. “I guess the stars just aligned. I was free and she asked. I honestly don’t get invited to that many parties. And that was two questions.”

I hold my palm out in a gesture that it’s her turn.

“How many girls have you brought up here? Ballpark.”

I’m pleased this is a question I can answer honestly and to my credit. “None.”

She narrows her gaze. “I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true. The official Seven Minutes in Heaven room is actually the closet downstairs.”

Rolling her eyes, her stance closes off a bit. “You know what I meant.”

Yeah, of course I do.

“I don’t know. A lot. Does it matter?”

“No, I guess it doesn’t. That’s four questions.” She holds three fingers in the air with a smirk. “Why do you keep coming to the café asking me out every week? You have to know that I’m never going to say yes.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” I argue. “You want to say yes. I don’t know why you keep saying no, but I know I’m not wrong about the attraction between us being mutual.”

“And you’re what? Hoping to wear me down by buying coffee?”

“Winners want the ball.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“I don’t understand how that fits this scenario. Am I the ball?”

Reaching out, I let my fingertips graze her arm – elbow to wrist. Goosebumps meet my touch, but she doesn’t pull back. “It means that I’m willing to risk you turning me down every week because there’s always a chance you’ll say yes. I might fail ninety-nine times before I succeed, but I’m going to keep trying because I want you. You’re not the ball, Kitty, you’re the goal.”

She scrunches up her nose. “The goal? You can ‘score,’” —she air quotes the word— “with any girl you want. So, I’m not sure I buy it. If I’m just a goal…”

“Don’t twist my words. You’re not just anything.”

Our eyes lock and the air shifts. I don’t dare move even though I’m dying to taste her, to show her how good we can be together.

She lets out a long breath and shakes her head. “Can I have a drink of that?”

I hand over the bottle and watch as she tips it back and proceeds to grimace as the liquor meets her tongue. She hands it back with a cough. “Thanks.”