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“Yeah.” His mouth twists. “It’s called breaking and entering.”
“I didn’t break anything. And it’s my house!”
He gives a little shake of his head. “There are Peeping Tom laws, too.”
“Excuse me?”
His mouth twists in a devilish smirk.
Shame sweeps through me as I realize what he means, followed by sheer outrage. “I didn’t know you were here! And I’m not peeping at anything.”
He shifts his stance, lifting his brows as he attempts to draw my eyes downward.
“You’re…horrid.” The ache in my chest blooms like a wound. All these years, since Prince Declan—
Baby bleats. I cradle her closer. “If it weren’t for me, you
wouldn’t even have a place to stay.”
“You don’t think so?”
“What, because your last name is Carnegie?” I see a smirk lift his lips, and it makes want to pop him. “You think you’re so vitally important? Do you think we owe you something? No one asked you to come!”
“Actually, Mayor Acton begged me to visit.”
“Well he’s deluded! Baseball is an awful sport. I don’t find you impressive in the slightest!”
“No?” He looks down at himself. My eyes dip down on reflex—only for an instant before I jerk my gaze back to his face.
“You’re a pig!”
“And you’re in heat.” He arches his thick brows, as if to challenge me.
“That is absolutely vile.”
He shrugs. “You should own it. You may think baseball is boring, but you’re not bored by this bat.” A tight grin rounds his cheeks, and I struggle to use words.
“That’s repulsive as well as completely untrue. As it happens, I’m repelled by knob-heads.”
His eyes narrow. “I don’t think so.” He points to his chest, and I glance down in horror. I can see the hard points of my nipples through my blouse.
Stricken beyond coherence, I whirl and fly into the kitchen, where I start tossing frozen milk bottles into a canvas bag. Baby bleats her hunger. I’m shaking with fury.
“Rushing out?” I hear him say behind me.
“Jump off a cliff!”
“I don’t think so. Not yet, anyway.” I hear a sigh-like sound. “Why don’t you sit down there for a minute? We can start this over.”
I whirl. “Sod off!”
I hate myself for how my eyes peruse his body—clad now in a towel—before I brush past him, setting Baby on the floor so I can jerk my boots and coat on.
I feel him watching from the doorway between den and kitchen. When I’m dressed to go, I grab a blanket off the couch, scoop Baby up, and grab my bag.
“Try to stay dry,” he calls.
I stick up my middle finger as I stomp out the door and into the storm once more.
