Don’t text him back yet.
I’ll be right there.
While I was texting with Nora, a follow-up message from Bradley arrived—a string of question marks.
Can a question mark look pissed off? Because these do.
Nora asked me not to respond, but the damage has already been done, so I figure I should at least clarify the situation for him.
I send a few innocuous texts:
Oh, you’re probably wondering how I know Pansy.
She’s engaged to a friend.
Well, a friend of a friend.
I head inside and am not surprised when Nora knocks two minutes later. She’s a fighter. Once she’s got an idea in her head, she won’t let go.
It’s something we have in common.
The moment I open the door, Cookie darts up and starts pawing at Nora until Nora takes pity on her and rubs her ears.
My dog, God love her, starts barking so loudly, it would try the patience of Dottie, who is the closest person to a saint I’ve ever met. Cookie only stops when Nora squats down and lets her sniff her face—presumably to verify that she is indeed Nora and not someone in a similar skin suit.
“This is a major development,” Nora says, looking up at me with shining eyes.
My gaze snags on her low-cut shirt, which reveals a hint of cleavage. “It is.”
“Cormac?”
“Huh?”
She rolls her eyes and pulls down her top and bra, flashing me.
“Jesus.” I look up sharply, making sure the blinds, which I closed before heading to the boxing gym, have not magically opened.
My dick comes to attention.
She lets her bra and shirt spring back into place and stands up. “Now that you’ve gotten your fill, tell me everything.”
“I think you’re underestimating what it would take for me to get my fill,” I mutter, adjustingmy glasses.
I couldneverget my fill of her. Nora has always captured my imagination, but now she’s taken over the rest of me. She might as well have planted a flag in the center of my chest with her name on it.
She grins, her gaze full of mischief. “Later.”
It sounds like a promise, which is good news. I mentally reset, reciting the decimal places of pi in my head, then sit down and pat the couch. “Let’s take a look.”
She settles in next to me, her thigh overlapping mine, and I have to swallow a sigh of contentment.
She’s not yours, you idiot. She doesn’t want to be.
I show her the text messages, and she puckers her lips. “We should just call Bradley.”
“Call him?” I ask in horror.
I spend most of my life avoiding phone calls, so to intentionally call a complete stranger is unthinkable.
