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“Something like that.”
“Is it custom, like, did you design it?”
His brows lift. “Something like that.” His lips twitch.
I laugh. “You’re evasive. That makes me believe you are—or were—in the special forces.”
His eyes burn into mine. His lips linger between smirk and smile. “Is there something that made you apt to disbelieve?”
“Apt to disbelieve?” I laugh. “That’s some formal language, soldier. You must have been an officer.”
He shakes his head, still smirk-smiling.
I giggle. “Did your face cause a cease-fire?”
His eyebrows scrunch, making him look no less perfect.
“Oh, c’mon.” I step out on a limb, grappling for the old Gwen—the one who used to tease guys, second nature. “Don’t tell me you’ve never been teased about your face.”
“My face?” He frowns.
“Yes. Your hot face.” I laugh and hold my arms out. “I said it. I used to do some modeling with male models and your face? The artists would get them to that point with makeup. Fake lashes and an eyebrow pencil. I would be more likely to believe you did an Army-themed campaign for Armani than you were in the actual Army.”
I realize as soon as I finish that what I said was insulting.
“God. I guess that’s really rude.” I brave a look at him and find his dark head tilted back. A chuckle rises from his throat and he lifts a hand to his head, as if to keep the wound from splitting open. He’s grinning ear to ear and holy baby Jesus… “You have dimples.” I dip my own head back and slam my hand over my heart. “Slain.”
His low, rich laughter is beautiful—and contagious.
“Gwenna…Gwen. Fuck.” He lets out another low hoot, then rubs his eyes. “I can’t remember the last time I laughed.”
His face goes stark so fast I know he must have thought of something painful. He covers it with a radiant, dimpled smile. Pushing my self-consciousness aside, I snarile back.
“Just being honest.” I shrug. “I can see some women taking off their burkas for that.” I nod at him, an objectifying look that’s mean to amuse.
His face goes completely white. He does this weird blink thing—a long blink, like a doll’s blink. Like he can clear the windshield of his brain with that blink. I expect him to turn to me and smile or offer some cover for his strange reaction, so when he stares blankly out at nothing, my throat tightens.
“Oh God, wrong thing to say. I’m sorry.” I clamp my teeth down on my lip. “Like, really. I’m a moron.”
He shakes his head and slowly brings his eyes to me. “No.” He sounds a little breathless.
I see his Adam’s apple bob along the column of his throat. He tries to smile again, and it’s the biggest fail I’ve ever seen. It has to actually hurt.
His left hand goes up to his temple, and I can see the fingers shaking.
My body flushes with remorse. “I’m so sorry. Really sorry. I should be more careful with my big mouth.”
He shuts his eyes again, and I watch his chest rise and fall as he exhales. His gray-blue eyes open.
“I don’t get out enough,” he starts. His voice is full-on hoarse. He turns to me, his eyes deep wells. “You did…nothing wrong. Don’t feel badly.”
My throat thickens and my eyes begin to sting. “I’m sorry. I should go now. I don’t want to keep on messing things up.”
I rush out of the bathroom and hurry through his massive bedroom. As I reach for the doorknob, his hand comes down on my shoulder. The touch is fleeting. As I turn to him, he lets me go.
“Thank you,” he says. His face is grave, his body hard and warm beside mine.
I laugh. “The last thing you should do is thank me.”
