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She went pink, but said nothing.
I downed the whole glass, all at once. The heat that rolled in its wake felt good. Too good. I wanted to lean in and smell her hair again.
You’re supposed to be getting her mad. Then she’s supposed to get you mad. You need those fucking words on the page, remember?
“So what are you doing down here? Hiding from a boyfriend?”
She’d picked up a wrench while I was drinking, like she was going to get back to work. But the flash in her eyes told me I’d hit something raw. Her knuckles whitened as she tightened her grip on the tool. “Is that really any of your business?”
Success—I’d pissed her off. But suddenly I was sorry I had. Whatever had brought her here, it hadn’t been good.
You’re a prick, Harrington.
My dad had called me that once. A prick. When I’d told him I didn’t want to join him in his business. He’d already been turned down by Blake and Connor and must have known what my answer would be too. Who the fuck does that, calls their son that?
She was still waiting for my answer.
I didn’t want to be a prick right now.
“No,” I said, my voice low. “You’re right, it’s none of my fucking business.” I tossed back another glass of whiskey, trying to center myself again. “How is it?”
She waited a moment, as if to see if I’d go back to it anyway. When I didn’t, she dropped the wrench in her toolbox with a resounding clank. “It’s not great. You really did a number on this pipe,” she said. “I won’t be able to fix it today.”
My stupid chest lifted at that. She’d have to come back. “How long will it take?” The words came out a grumble, like I wasn’t glad about it.
“I’m going to need some parts. It’ll be a few days. You won’t be able to cook in here.”
I barked out a laugh. “I don’t cook.” I couldn’t remember the last time I’d used a stove. It had been years. Maybe decades.
A look passed over her face. “Of course you don’t.”
“What does that supposed to mean?”
“It means you have people who do that for you.”
Irritation spiked hotter now. Never mind that she was right. “Do you see anyone else here?”
Her cheeks grew redder. But that only brought me back to how I was thinking about her before. My dick remembered too.
I took another swig of whiskey, unsure whether that was a bad thing.
“There’s Anita. She does whatever you want her to, right?”
I glared at her. “That’s about right.”
“Your perfect woman, I guess?”
“Better than an argumentative one.”
She stood up. A vein pulsed in her temple. Now she was pissed. That was good. That was why I came over here, right? To pick a fight? Or did I come over to feel her presence? To stare at the pulse throbbing at her throat. To see those ocean-deep eyes up close.
Fuck. The whiskey was addling my brain. I sat the bottle down on the counter. I didn’t actually want to get shit-faced.
“No,” she said.
“No?”
“You like fighting with me. That’s why you’re being such a dick, isn’t it?”
