Page 27 of Remington’s Mate

“I know,” she said. “Hold up.” She was already writing, trying to get her thoughts down in a coherent order before they vanished under the onslaught of her fucking hormones. Stop that, hormones.

He stopped in the act of opening the whiskey. “What are you doing?”

“Making a list.”

“Of what?”

“Duh. The things we have to talk about. So we don’t forget anything.”

There was a silence, but she could feel his eyes on her like heat lasers. It was distracting. In a minute all her clothes would be ashes, and then she’d be naked and she’d have to attack him.

She frowned at him. “What?”

The corner of his mouth was curled up with what looked like amusement, but his eyes were surprisingly intense.

“Do you do this for every conversation you have?”

“Of course not, doofus. Can you imagine what my dates would be like?”

“Actually, no. I’m trying to imagine you on a date, and I’m completely at a loss.”

“I’m sure you are, if it’s anything more involved than ripping women’s underwear off—in any sense.”

“Ouch,” he murmured, though he did not seem noticeably squashed at her insult. Skin as thick as an alligator’s, probably. With the arrogance of most owls. “Do you take ice in your whiskey?”

“Yes,” she said, returning to her list. “And Coke.”

“I’ll go get the ice while you finish… whatever it is you’re doing.”

She finished her list and her notes just as he came back with a bucket of ice. He poured her drink, and handed her the whiskey and Coke. He said, “I can’t believe you’re ruining whiskey this good by putting Coke in it.”

“Be thankful it isn’t Diet Coke. Imagine how you’d feel then.”

Remy shuddered, then glanced down at her purse, which was sitting beside her on the bed, the top still gaping open. “Holy shit,” he said, picking it up and staring into it. “That is the most terrifyingly organized purse I’ve ever seen.”

“Not all women have messy purses,” she informed him. “It’s a stereotype.”

“Maybe—though my personal experience says no. But this thing is beyond not-messy.” He poked his finger inside. “This is total OCD.”

“Well, it’s my OCD purse.” She grabbed it back from him. “Stop touching it.”

He gazed at her for a moment, then slowly reached out one finger toward the purse.

She slid her wrist knife into her palm. “If you fuck with my purse again I will cut you.”

Remy grinned, the dickhead. “You know,” he said, “I’m really starting to like you.”

“Not the reaction I was hoping for, but okay.”

He abandoned the purse and went to pour his own drink. Dropping one ice cube into his whiskey, he sat down in the room’s only chair. “You don’t live like that all the time, do you?” he asked, taking a swallow. “Obsessively organizing your silverware drawer? Unable to sleep without lining up your shoes in an exact row? Getting up at 2 a.m. to move the furniture because you just know there’s a dust bunny gathering behind it?”

Who the hell was he to get all judgy? Jaeda just looked at him innocently. “You don’t?”

“I can’t decide whether to be terrified by your obsessive organization, or turned on by the bloodthirsty way you enforce it.”

“Go with terrified,” she suggested. “Getting turned on will just be frustrating for you. I don’t date shifters—or have one-night stands with them.”

“Good to know. Terrified it is, then.” He didn’t look terrified. He was watching her intently—not quite like a predator watching prey, but more like he was deciding whether or not she was worth hunting. “Feel free to proceed.”