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He smiled.
No flirting with it, it was full-out this time.
Oh man.
I was screwed.
“I like your friend,” he said.
“Don’t let her fool you, she’s crazier than me. She just hides it better.”
He kept smiling.
Shit.
“Listen, Cap—” I started.
“I’ll be here tomorrow, six thirty, to pick you up. I don’t mess around when it comes to food. So wear something nice.”
My mind immediately split between my closet and my bank account, the one side telling me it contained nothing that would do for a date with Julien “Cap” Jackson, the other side telling me I didn’t have enough to splurge on a new dress (and shoes…and handbag).
I corralled my mind’s wayward ways and noted, “I didn’t say yes to the date.”
“No woman stares at a man’s hand like you stared at mine when she doesn’t want that hand doing something to her.”
Oh my God!
“You weren’t even looking at me.”
“I’d adjusted the side mirror so I could see you.”
Damned technology making side mirrors adjustable with interior buttons clever PI guys could use so they could watch you while you didn’t know they were doing it.
“That’s sneaky,” I announced.
“It’s part of my job.”
Huh.
“You’re very full of yourself,” I stated.
“Yeah, you said that already. Six thirty.”
“Cap—”
He bent to put his face in my face at the same time his free hand slid up my neck to cup my jaw.
I smelled him again, this time with that beautiful hand on me, and I stilled in silent, expectant anticipation.
I thought he might kiss me.
But he didn’t, and idiotically, I was disappointed about that.
Instead, he said, “And no woman, who doesn’t want a man in her bedroom, lets him break into her house and then doesn’t do dick about him being in her bedroom.”
Busted!
“Rachel. Six thirty. Dinner. And the story behind that shit on your wall.” He said this like a warning.
