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Like her name.
She told everyone her name was Chip when word got around we had a new permanent resident, and she’s never deviated from that. After a little digging at opportune times, I discovered it’s a nickname.
I prefer the one I gave her.
Even though she hates it and has let me know more than once.
I’ve been trying to figure out her real name for nearly three years, and she’s never been inclined to give it.
“Same thing we do every night, Pinky,” she quips.
A grin tugs at my lips. “Try to take over the world.” I finish the quote from the cartoon that was popular when we were kids.
She doesn’t return the smile. Like always, her plump, lush lips remain in a flat line where I’m concerned.
Normally by now, I’d have moved on to greener pastures, but there’s something about the woman that tells me the front she presents to the world isn’t all that accurate.
The way her gaze drags down my body, her eyes on fire, is the biggest indication that she’s not as disinterested as she lets on. I stand a little taller at the attention.
Look your fill, babe.
I know desire when I see it in her melted-chocolate eyes.
I’m convinced she’s playing hard to get, but for the life of me I can’t figure out why.
“I’m having a barbecue on Sunday. You should come.” The words pop into existence between us, and while I had nothing of the sort planned, I have enough friends to get them together on short notice and throw some food together for us.
“A barbecue?” she asks.
I nod, the spit in my mouth drying to dust at the hope that flutters through my chest.
Maybe this time. Maybe she’ll say yes.
“In December? No thanks.” She rolls her eyes with her response, and the hope that previously lit up my chest withers and dies before it can take root.
“I forgot you’re not from around here. The cold doesn’t stop us from too much when we make our minds to do something.” I can’t help the snub from slipping out.
Nobody in town can get my back up like the woman in front of me.
The line moves forward again, and she gives her order to the barista.
Before the cashier can tell Imp her total, I scoot close to her, our bodies nearly touching in front of the crowded counter space. “I’ll take a black coffee, two sugars,” I say and whip my card out.
Dina gets the picture and, always one to help me out, punches my order in. Before Imp can finish sputtering, my credit card meets the reader machine, and it beeps with the approval for the purchase.
“Goddammit, Warrick.” She shakes her head when I scoot around her to wait for the finished beverages.
“What?” I ask, like I don’t know what I just did.
“I don’t need you to buy my coffee.”
“I know,” I say, the conversation turning serious.
“Listen.”
Nothing good ever comes after a woman tells you to listen with a stern expression on her face.
“Caramel latte, black coffee two sugars,” the barista calls out, interrupting the lecture I’m about to get from the spitfire that I can’t get out of my head.
