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“Could have fooled me,” he muttered.
“You don’t own me, Logan. Just because we’re doing this, doesn’t give you the right to be territorial. I didn’t sign up for dealing with a caveman complex.”
Logan smoothed his jacket, irritation pounding in his temples. “Well, while we’re on the subject, if we’re going to be dating, I won’t have men hitting on my girlfriend right in front of my face.”
“And I won’t be treated like a possession, nor like a fragile doll. I’ve never needed help before, and I certainly don’t need any now, from you.” She turned to him, meeting his gaze dead-on, jaw tight.
Logan snorted, which only made Marti clench her jaw harder, the muscle twitching just south of her cheekbones. She was kind of cute when she was mad.
“And don’t be late again. I will not wait on any man,” she gritted out.
“Fine.” Logan turned his gaze to the painting, trying not to let on how much he enjoyed their verbal sparring. “Then I pick you up from now on. I’m not the kind of guy that goes Dutch or meets women for dates. I’ll pick you up properly. I’ll pay, and I’ll hold doors open for you, pull out chairs, too. Because I’m a real man, unlike the losers you’re used to. I don’t want to hear about this equality crap every five seconds. Got it?”
“Fine.” Her spine stiffened. “Then no terms of endearment. I’m not you or any man’s sweetheart. I have a name. And you’ll use it.”
Logan laughed and shifted his body in front of the painting, unable to take her serious any longer. Blocking her view, he forced her to look at him. “Don’t worry, McBride. Myself and every other man in this room,” he said glancing around them, “probably every man in this city, knows your name. How could we forget the infamous Queen of Single?” he quipped. “You might as well have a sign strapped to your head that says, back off.”
Her eyes hardened on his face. She didn’t back down. This was a woman unafraid of a challenge.
Instead, she pierced him with those ocean eyes. Taking a step forward, she leaned into him, her gaze flickering over his face, making him feel things he didn’t want to feel as she said, “Good. We’re clear on where we both stand, then?”
“Of
course. I wouldn’t dare dig too deep into your anti-relationship rhetoric.” He placed his hand on the small of her back, catching her by surprise. “You don’t have to worry about me trying to break down those walls. I retired my sledgehammer a long time ago.”
Her mouth rounded into an O and her eyes widened. To anyone watching, it looked like an intimate moment—whispered words of seduction, rather than a duel.
Who would be the first to break?
“You think you know me, Love? You don’t.” She pointed a finger into his chest.
“No?” He eyed her with a look that said otherwise—like he knew what she looked like beneath that pretty little dress. “Don’t worry, McBride, you can remain cold and emotionally unattached, as long as you smile and look pretty when all eyes are on us. Kind of like right now.” His heart hammered against his ribs, and he lifted her hand to his mouth. It was rigid and stiff, yet he placed a kiss on her palm, noting the crowd they’d drawn.
He leaned back then and felt a punch of satisfaction at watching Marti exhale and glance around them, visibly shaken.
She flashed her sweet smile for the people gawking—all for show—then turned her gaze back onto the painting in front of them. “Just try not to fall in love with me, Doctor.”
His lips quirked. The center of his chest pinched. “I’ll do my very best.”
They lapsed into silence for a moment, and Logan realized it wasn’t entirely uncomfortable. If they could stop going for each other’s throats every two seconds, this temporary relationship might not be so bad. They might even be able to enjoy each other’s company.
He peeked at her from the corner of his eye.
Her mouth turned down into a frown, her forehead creased in concentration as she stared at the canvas. Something told him this hard-as-steel version of her was a front. Deep inside, there was another woman. One who needed love just like everyone else. But something had turned her heart to stone, just like past heartbreak had made him guard his.
Fixing his gaze back on the painting, he took in the splotches of color and grunted. “What the heck is that?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MARTI
MARTI STARED AT THE canvas in front of them, biting her tongue. The pale golden lighting of the art gallery did little to soothe her nerves. Around them, people mingled, enjoying robust conversations about the art installations, aesthetic, and abstract impressionism, while she was conversing with a child.
Logan Love was one of the most infuriating men she’d ever met. It was as if he knew exactly how to get under her skin.
Marti counted to ten before answering, trying to harness her inner Yogi. “It’s a painting.” She waved her hand in front of her.
“Right. But a painting of what?”
