“What’s on your mind?” A curl tumbled over her forehead, teasing him, begging to be brushed aside.
“Do you really want to know?”
Her lips parted a fraction. “I think so.”
“Don’t believe everything you think, Pocket Rocket.” The nickname rolled off his tongue. He liked calling her that. He liked way too much about her. They hadn’t known each other long but already had this rhythm established, a back-and-forth that wasn’t quite bickering but was closer to a dance. They kept making up the steps, changing the tune, forcing the other to react and adapt.
“Go on, then. Tell me.” Her voice was tight, a guitar string on the verge of snapping.
“You’ve got pretty eyes.” It wasn’t everything he was thinking, not even close, but it felt like enough for now.
“Is that all?” She tilted her head, an undercurrent of bemusement in her tone.
His laugh took him by surprise, the sound filling the small room. “What more do you want?”
“It’s customary for gentlemen to pay compliments to my eyes,” she observed crisply. “It appears to be one of those pretty nothings your gender latches onto before admiring my gown, or inquiring about my accomplishments.”
“Are you telling me that I’m basic?” He clutched his chest in mock offense.
“You had a rather interesting expression on your face a moment ago, and it made me curious to learn if there was an interesting thought to accompany it.” She flicked a speck of dust off her sleeve. “But alas, you’ve dismissed that idea entirely.” Despite her deadpan tone, those pretty eyes she’d shot him down for complimenting sparkled brightly with mischief.
The game was still on. She was poking and seeing if he’d poke back.
The problem was that if she kept this up, he’d want to do a hell of a lot more than poke. He’d never had a woman hand him his ass like this; she wasn’t remotely intimidated or trying to impress.
“Okay, fine, give me another chance.” He leaned in, dropping his voice to a low purr. “What about this...? Your eyes look like moons when you smile, little crescent ones.”
She pursed her lips, as if fighting an unwilling smile. “I still stand by my earlier assertion that you shouldn’t trade hockey for poetry.”
“Well, I might not be a poet, but I’m prepared to sleep on the ground for you. Although if I’m going to be honest, it’s more for my own selfish reasons.”
“Excuse me?” She bit, just like he knew she would. Two points for him.
“Well, I dunno if I should say it, but I should be honest, right?” He took his time with his shrug, enjoying the way she leaned in, curious despite herself. “You look like a bit of a blanket hog.”
“A what!” Real outrage entered her voice.
“The kind of person who steals all the blankets.”
“If you must know, I end up kicking most of them off in thenight. I get too hot, except for my...” She trailed off, blinking. “Never mind. Forget I said that.”
Not a chance.
“Go on,” he prompted.
“I should wash up. Long day on the road. And we have another one tomorrow.” She fidgeted a moment before clasping her hands together. “I’m also starting to get peckish. They must have cheese and bread downstairs.”
“Elizabeth Wooddash, don’t you go changing the subject. Finish the thought—except for...”
“Oh, fine. It’s just a bit of nonsense. I keep my feet covered for the monsters.” Her words spilled out in a breathless rush. Noting his blank look, she hesitated. “You do know about the monsters, don’t you?”
The corners of his mouth twitched. “I regret to say that I’m not on a first-name basis with any.”
Her shoulders stiffened. “I am seven and twenty and well aware monsters do not truly exist and that such a notion is preposterous. Yet, when I sleep, I must ensure my feet remain covered, lest one of them should attempt to brush my foot with a clammy finger.” A visible shudder rippled through her body.
“I see, so if there’s a monster lurking around, that’s how it’s going to want to spend its time? Tickling your bare foot?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” She wrinkled her nose. He was beginning to know that expression well, and the two little lines that appeared between her brows had become his good friends too.
