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.

“Uh…do you regret transferring here?” There. That’s decent, and I want to know the answer.

“I used to—not that I’ve been here all that long. I know things take time, but honestly, after that night you and I met, I wanted to leave. I hated it here. Didn’t like those girls, blamed them for what happened even though it was my fault. But…” Her fingers reach for some of the floating bubbles. “Not anymore. I’m happier and it’s getting easier.”

“That’s good. That you don’t hate it anymore, I mean.”

She smiles across the water, the blue glow casting shadows on her skin—probably on mine, too.

Her turn.

“Have you ever been in love?”

Whoa, Nelly—that escalated quickly, but the answer is easy. “No.”

It’s impossible to read her expression from here, but judging from her silence, she was expecting me to elaborate.

Now it’s my turn, so she’ll have to hold her horses. “What’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever done?”

Georgia snorts. “That’s easy—letting Ronnie and the girls haze me.”

Now I’m snorting. “Please, that cannot be the dumbest thing you’ve done. Haven’t you ever…I don’t know. Pranked someone and had it gone wrong? Or slept with someone and felt gross about it afterward?”

“No.” She laughs. “And this isn’t a debate. You asked, I answered, now we move on.”

Fine.

Sullen, I wait for her next question, desperate for a chug of alcohol, wishing we had something stronger than the fizzy gold piss.

“Why are you single?”

Her question is bold and unexpected, and it seems now we’re getting to edgier inquiries that’ll make this evening more interesting.

“I’m single because I don’t do casual.”

“What do you mean, you don’t do casual? Sex? Or just casually dating?”

I don’t answer because she got her one ask. “This isn’t a debate. You asked, I answered—now we move on.”

Her mouth pops open. “Stop throwing the rules back in my face.”

“I don’t make the rules, I only follow them, love.”

Love.

I use the word intentionally and watch her intake of breath—the breath she tries to hide by taking a chug of champagne. I let it pass without mentioning because neither of us have even drunk any of it and it’ll wind up going to waste if we don’t.

Seems this is one game of honesty we’re not backing down from.

Georgia tilts her chin up. “Your question.”

Fine. “When was your first snog?”

“My first what?”

Shite, that’s right—they don’t call it that here. “Kiss. Your first kiss.”

“Oh.” She laughs nervously. “Um, seventeen?”

Seventeen? How had blokes not kissed her sooner—are they mad?

“Is that your final answer?”

Georgia’s laugh sounds bashful and cute. “Final answer.”

I nod.

Wait.

“When was your first snog?” she copycats, giggling because she used British slang.

“Sixteen, I think. Victoria Channing on holiday at her parents’ house party.” It wasn’t any good. I biffed it up, having zero clue what I was going on about. Too much tongue, too much spit. Victoria roasted me to a few mates and I still haven’t lived it down.

Have I gotten better at snogging? Who knows.

It usually only happens when I’m shagging someone random after a long dry spell, too sauced to boot.

Desperate isn’t a word I use, but…

If the shoe fits.

“Do you want to snog me?”

Is she trollied? I thought we were sobering up since we haven’t had a drop since dinner, if you don’t count our tiny, secretive sips.

“You just asked two questions in a row.” I can’t help but blurt out.

“Is this you refusing to answer?” She counters.

Is it? No it’s not me refusing to answer, it’s me trying to play by the rules.

“Now that’s three.” Suddenly cheeky, the minx raises her brow. “Give me an answer or you have to drink.”

Fuck.

She’s a feisty little thing, putting me on the spot like this.

If I say yes, she might think I’m a sodding pervert. If I say no, she’s going to think I don’t want to snog her. If I choose not to answer, she’s going to make up her own assumption and—

I’m overthinking this.

Just answer the bloody question, you twat.

The little savage dares me to puss out and not respond; just look at her over there, smirking at you, so cocksure.