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Instead of answering, he places both palms on the counter and scoots the bar stool back. Conversation over, apparently.
I sigh. “So we’re really not going to talk about the kiss anymore? Or about the fact that everyone thinks we’re dating?”
“What’s the point? People will believe what they want to believe regardless. It’ll pass. As for the kiss…” He shrugs. “Not like it’s going to happen again.” He watches me. “Right?”
My eyes drop to his mouth, and even though I know he’s sick, my body remembers all too well what it felt like to have him pressed against me, remembers how hot and possessive his mouth was.
How I didn’t want the kiss to end…
“Georgiana?”
My eyes go back to his. “Right. No repeats.”
Something flickers across his face, and I can’t figure out if it’s disappointment or relief. I’ve never had any trouble reading guys, but for the life of me, Andrew Mulroney remains a mystery.
I try to tell myself that’s why I’m still sticking around when we’re so obviously incompatible. Because I want to solve him.
“So, movie?” I ask brightly.
“Why are you pushing it? Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
I let out a tired laugh and close my eyes. “Fine. Fine. You win, Mulroney. I’ll get out of your hair. You’re welcome for the damn soup.”
I turn on my heel and take my glass to the sink, dashing the last few sips down the drain before flipping the water on to rinse it out. “Just let me put the leftover soup in a Tupperware container and I’ll—”
Because of the running water, I don’t hear him approach, and I jump when I feel a touch on my shoulder.
I spin around, the soapy water from the glass dripping on the floor, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care.
His hand drops from my shoulder, and he starts to cross his arms defensively, but instead lets his hands fall to his side as he exhales. “You always do that,” he says.
“Do what?”
“Assume the worst of me.”
I drop my mouth open. “I assume the worst of you? Says the guy who told me I have no brain? The one who says kissing me was a mistake? The one who can barely muster a thank-you after I just played Florence Nightingale all day for a guy who doesn’t even like me?”
His jaw tightens. “Georgiana.”
“Andrew.” I refuse to make this easy for him. I’m not sure what we’re doing here, but I’m a little tired of putting myself out there over and over without getting even a little something in return.
We stare at each other in stubborn silence, and finally he does cross his arms, at the exact moment when he says, “I don’t dislike you.”
I throw my hands up in the air. “Seriously? Okay, I’m done. I’m out. I hope the Wicked Witch’s flying monkeys carry you away and I never have to see you again.”
I sidestep, but he steps with me, his arm finding my elbow. “You can pick the movie.”
I clap my hands together in fake excitement. “Oh, can I? That will make everything better.”
“You can drink more of my wine.”
“I have a headache,” I snap, realizing that it’s true. Dealing with this man is basically the mother of all migraines.
I pull my arm free and head toward the door, feeling just…done.
“Don’t leave,” he calls, raising his voice, and then lowering it. “Please.”
I turn back. “Why should I stay? Just because you don’t dislike me? Because—news flash, Andy—I’m starting to think I really do dislike you.”
