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“You don’t need to smile at me or bring me lunch. You don’t need to keep me company. You don’t owe me anything except a paycheck.”
But the smile that played around the corners of his mouth didn’t go away. In fact, it deepened. And she noticed a dimple on his right cheek. What was with this guy?
“You’re a real cranky-pants.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“I bet you have.”
He was looking at her again. In that way of his that made her nervous and defensive and, well, plain old argumentative. Maybe she should have pondered that—why a man she barely knew made her feel that way—but at the moment, all she cared about was wiping that smile from his face.
“I’ve been called worse.” A pause. “By you.” The words slipped out before she could stop them.
His smile faltered, and that made her feel good. “Morgan.” His voice was soft, cajoling even, but it didn’t matter. The anger in her was bubbling, and though it seemed it had come from nowhere, it was clearly here to stay.
“Let’s start with ‘charity case,’ shall we? Because that’s a good one.”
He set down his bowl, that smile of his completely gone. Score one for Morgan.
“Not fair.”
“Then I think the term ‘middle-aged’ was used.” She glared at him now, not bothering to hide her anger.
“Okay. That wasn’t exactly the smartest thing that’s ever come out of my mouth. And I didn’t mean anything by—”
She cut him off. “I’m twenty-seven.”
“I’m aware of that.” A heartbeat passed, and he frowned darkly. She wanted to look away from him—from his all-seeing eyes—but couldn’t. “Look, Morgan. I think we got off on the wrong foot, and I apologize for my comments the other day. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You didn’t hurt me.” The reply was automatic.
The words had stung. There was no denying that, and yet… Yet deep down, Morgan knew it wasn’t Cooper’s fault. She glanced down, noting the ragged edges of her faded gray sweatshirt. And, sheesh, was that gravy splatter from the night before?
He cleared his throat as an awkward silence grew. “Okay. Let’s agree that I acted like a complete asshat the first time we met and move on.”
“Asshat isn’t exactly the word I’d use, but it’s a start.”
“Mr. Asshat?” There was that smile again, and, flustered, because in all honesty, this was the most conversation she’d had with anyone outside her family and Hank in months, she glanced down and worried the edge of her sweatshirt with nervous fingers. She was way out of practice when it came to a simple conversation, and feeling the sting of it.
“Are you going to the St. Patrick’s Day thing in town?”
Her head shot up. “The what?”
“The thing at the fire hall tomorrow night. It’s St. Patrick’s Day.”
God, no. She shook her head.
“Why not? I hear it’s the place to be. Great band. Great music.”
“Not really my thin
g.”
“What is your thing?”
“I don’t have a thing.” Her throat was tight, and she blinked rapidly as pictures and memories flashed before her.
“Everybody’s got a thing.”
