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“I was ten when I told you.” Her breaths hitched. “How can you possibly remember that?”
“I remember how old you were, too. I remember all of it.” He grinned. “And so do you.”
She flushed and shook her head. How could he remember a detail as small as her favorite flower? That had been sixteen years ago. He was probably bluffing, and just pretending he remembered. “Fine. Who was my favorite band back then?”
“Backstreet Boys. Especially Kevin. You liked them dark and broody.” Not a moment’s hesitation. Damn him. “You didn’t like NSync, but you liked Justin Timberlake. Do you still?”
“Uh. Yeah.” She stared at him. “How do you remember that?”
He laughed and brushed a finger down her cheek. The touch left chills in its wake. “Because you told me.”
“Favorite color?”
“Purple. You’re not even asking hard questions.”
“Damn you,” she muttered.
She took refuge in the kitchen and set the tulips on the counter. His laughter followed. How could he possibly know her so well? She barely remembered which damned Backstreet Boy she’d liked best. Why did he?
She opened a cabinet and, with unsteady hands, retrieved a vase. When she turned to grab the flowers, she collided with his chest. He chuckled and steadied her—and didn’t release her. She stared up into his irresistible blue eyes. Why had she turned him away, again?
Oh. Right. Her scars.
“Still can’t walk in a straight line to save your life. Never could. I thought lawyers were supposed to be all methodical poise.” His fingers stroked against her arms. “But I like that that didn’t change about you. I like everything about you. Even if you are a dull, boring lawyer.”
She tried to smile. “I couldn’t pull off ‘poise’ to save my life.”
Tension crackled between them. His gaze traced over her lips, until she could almost feel the deviant things those eyes promised to do to her mouth. She licked her lips. He leaned closer, and she bit back a moan.
“I’d b-better put the flowers in water,” she mumbled.
He shook his head, released her, and leaned against the island. His fingers played over his dog tags. He always seemed to do that when he had something on his mind. She wondered what it was now—and regretted it when he asked, “Anything else you want to test me on? I’m a master of Erica pop trivia.”
Question number three, for the prize: why can’t I get you out of my head?
“Who did I like in tenth grade?”
“Me.”
“Be serious.” She couldn’t stand to let him know how close to the truth he was. She scowled. “Come on. Guess again.”
“All right, all right. Kenny. No idea why. He was a loser.”
“That’s why. I was in a bad boy phase.” She chuckled and set the flowers in the vase. “Every girl needs at least one bad boy in her life at some point.”
“Are you still in that phase?” He straightened, his movements lazy and powerful, and tugged a lock of her hair. “I can play the part to perfection. Even got the background and tattoos to prove it. And I come with references. Cops count, right?”
She burst into laughter. “Sorry. I grew out of that a long time ago.”
“Then I retract my previous statement, and request that the judge strike it from the record. I’m a good guy, I swear.” Jeremy smiled, about as innocent as the big bad wolf in human form. “I’m harmless.”
“Doubtful.”
He said nothing, only watching her with those intense eyes and continuing to toy with that lock of her hair. If he didn’t stop looking at her like that…
She drew out of his reach. “I’d offer you a drink, but this shirt is dry-clean only.”
He winced, but his eyes creased at the corners. “Ow. Not nice.”
