“Does that mean you’re gonna chuck a brick at me again?” His hand lifts absently to a scar in his hairline.
“I was eight. He told me redheads have no soul.”
“All I wanted to do was order a round of drinks,” El mutters.
“Yes, let’s do that.” Heather steps around the table, patting her brother’s knee as she passes, curling her hand in a nonverbalup you go. “We’re going to help this gorgeous creature carry our drinks.”
“That’s not usually how it works,” the woman says with a smile.
“Don’t worry. El will still tip, and tip well. Especially if you don’t mind him walking behind us while he stares at your backside.”
“The tips are why I dress this way.” She slides El a look, then flicks her ponytail over her shoulder. “If he stares, I don’t mind.”
“Up you jump,” Heather says over her shoulder. “And don’t forget your wallet.”
The trio traipse off in the direction of the bar, leaving Whit sitting across the table, staring at me. Like, really staring at me.
“Kind of a surprise to see you here, Whit,” I say when it becomes obvious I’m not winning this staring match any time soon.
“I imagine so,” he offers blandly.
“What exactly are you doing here, if you don’t mind me asking?”
He makes an impatient noise as he leans forward in his seat. Elbows resting on his spread knees, he links his fingers in space between. “I was going to ask you the same question.” My heart does a little two-step at his tone. There’s something indefinably reprimanding in it. Despite my internal reaction, outwardly, my shoulders twitch in a tiny shrug. Not that he notices because he’s staring at those elegant hands. Elegant hands that seem to hold a lot of tension. “You’re not really interested in him.”
At his sharp tone, I glance up to find his gaze on mine, corkscrew sharp. Excuse me, but direct, much? It also happens to be true. El is fun, and he’s made his intentions obvious. Well, as obvious as he can without saying something like, ‘hey, wanna screw?’ The answer to his question would be yes. But not you. Not that I’ll admit that to Whit. It’s not likeheinvited me out this evening. It’s not like he checked in to see what my weekend plans were. Suddenly, I feel annoyed about that. About the way we left things.
“Why not?” I eventually offer. “El is cute. He’s uncomplicated.”
“Which is just another way of saying he’s stupid.”
“Far from it,” I say, pressing my back against my seat. “I think he’s pretty astute.” I keep my eyes on Whit’s face as I slowly cross my legs. “At least he’s not one of those men who play at willful ignorance.”
“Oh?” His shoulders stiffen minutely in a way that might convey ano, amaybe, or awhat do I care. But I know he cares, or why else would he be here? Why else would his sister be here, running interference?
“I don’t have a whole lot of experience.” Lowering my lashes, I slide my silver bangle around my wrist. “But I know when a man wants me.”
“It’s just a shame you don’t want him.” A fare of exhilaration lights in my stomach at the way he’s looking at me. “It’s me you want,” he asserts curtly. “You just haven’tquitebeen able to bring yourself to say so.”
“Wow. I’m learning all kinds of things about myself tonight.” Though my words are delivered with a scathing kind of laugh, the dark intention in his gaze makes me feel all jittery. Before the closet, we’d danced around this. I’ve hinted. Asked questions, but he’s right. I haven’t had the nerve to state my intention. Sure, I offered myself up willingly in the supply closet yesterday, but that’s not the whole of what I want. “What about you, Whit? I’m not the only one notquiteable to voice what I want.” My words mirror his, but with a little more mockery.
I came to London to be bold, to be audacious. And Whit is the only man I’ve every truly wanted even if he isn’t who I thought he was, that ideal version of him I’d held for years in my head. The real Whit is harder. More worldly.
He huffs an unhappy laugh. “If you knew the strength of mywant,you’d be on the first flight back to Florida.”
“You wish.”
“You think you’ve got it all sussed out, don’t you?”
“I don’t even know what that word means, but you could tell me, tell me about this want,” I say, channeling a demanding femme fatale. “Spell it out for me, Whit.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Didn’t seem complicated from the supply closet.”
“Do you want me to apologize?” I give my head a tiny shake. “Good, because I’m not sorry for what happened. I know I should be, that I shouldn’t have—”
“You didn’t. We almost did.”
