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It’s impossible to know if he’s kidding when there’s not even a twinkle in his eye.
I glance down at my outfit. “What’s wrong with them?”
“They’re for children,” he says dryly, as if I should already know—and oh-kay, rude. “They make you look innocent…”
“Right.”
“Delicate even,” he adds when I try to snatch my bag again. “About as threatening as a kitten, honestly.”
“At least cats have claws. What exactly are you working with, pretty boy?”
Other than power, money, and confidence…
He smirks, insufferably smug, and those smooth, full lips become a magnet for my gaze.
Okay, fine. He wins.
Once he finally offers me my pack, I sling it over my shoulder and spin for the opposite end of the sidewalk, only to roll my eyes when, step for step, he walks beside me.
“I usually get a woman’s name before she starts asking me things like that, you know.”
Please. I doubt this man has trouble getting women to ask him anything, yet I’m both annoyed and curious about his interest in someone as plain and uninteresting as me.
“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve got something I need to deal with.” When he continues watching me, I say, “It’s not polite to stare.”
Definitely a cheek twitch that time. “Are you going to make me guess?”
I almost lie, but my name fumbles from my mouth before I can snag it back.
“Molly,” he murmurs, as if he’s tasting my name on his tongue, and I try my damnedest not to have opinions about that.
“What’s it like not having a name?” I ask when he doesn’t offer his. “I imagine it makes whatever it is you do pretty difficult with a getup like that.”
He appears amused, or maybe it’s gas. Hard to know really. “My brothers and I have a stocks and bonds management company in Seattle. That’s where I’m from.”
“Oh,” I mutter lamely. I know nothing about city life, let alone stocks.
“Not an appropriate environment for denim, I’m afraid.”
Okay, that actually sounded like a joke.
I sneak a peek at him from the corner of my eye. His beard is a few shades darker than his hair, and he has a classically handsome face with a strong jaw and nose that are proportionate, even in profile.
“Name’s Rowan, by the way,” he answers finally.
I train my gaze on my white canvas sneakers while we walk. “Okay, Rowan. If you insist on following me, you might as well tell me what you’re doing in Magnolia Creek.”
“I’m looking for the library.” He removes a piece of paper from his pocket and points to the center of the note. “Someone mentioned a statue there that matches this emblem but neglected to give its location.”
“Well, lucky for you, it’s just a hop, skip, and a jump from here.” He follows the tip of my finger to the rustic, red-bricked building straight ahead.
“Thank you,” he says, but instead of moving toward the building, he twists back to me, eyes dropping to my lips.
“What?”
“The way you speak.” He tips his head. “I like it.”
My stomach clenches at the thought of him liking anything about me.
