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She didn’t have it in her to actually say his name out loud. Not when her skin was still oversensitized from the scene in the barn. The worst part, she didn’t want to like him, or feel compelled to make the schedule work. This was about the town, not one man.
Even if that one man looked like he just might be drowning.
Not your problem.
At least he’d seemed like it a moment ago. Now the crinkles were back and an easy smile made his lips even more annoyingly distracting. Also, being this close to him, she noticed that the freckles dusted his face just as thoroughly as the rest of him.
It seemed a shame to cover them up. How many times had she seen his face on the cover of music magazines or the rags in line at the market? She’d never seen freckles like these before. For God’s sake there were even freckles on his lips.
She forced her gaze back up to his eyes and saw a flash of heat. Dammit. Once upon a time she’d have jumped at the chance to flirt with him. God, would she have, but he was so beyond blacklisted on her current plan that she couldn’t even entertain the thought of being friendly. Her traitorous body would just have to get on board with the idea.
“I’m not being difficult. I’m being realistic. This is a small town that gets overrun every single time you do this festival.”
“I do it for the town as a way to give back.” One insolent brow went up and then his voice went sultry with the barest hint of the south. “You’re new here or you’d know that.”
Bella crossed her arms, folding her sweater over her chest to hide the tingle flaring over her skin. His voice was like honey-dripped sex. The unfairness of it was just cruel. “I know that. And we appreciate it every year.”
“I’m not asking a lot, Izzy.”
“It’s Isabella or Ms. Grace.” She didn’t like the flutters that happened every time he said Izzy. Especially since his voice seemed to deepen just on that one word.
“Mz. Grace then, because you became an Izzy the moment you came back at me about this.”
“Why?”
He dug his fingertips into his triceps and looked down. “That’s just the way it is.”
“That’s not an answer.”
With his head angled down, his eyes flicked up to meet hers. There was something else in his gaze. Frustration and loneliness she understood. It was the other part that made her want to back up. It was almost predatory. “Not sure you want the real answer, Izzy.”
“Would you stop?”
“You want the real answer?” His eyes flared with intent. “Because I don’t want to call you the same name everyone else does.” His voice lowered until it was a growling whisper. “Because you make me want something I shouldn’t. Because it suits that sassy mouth of yours.”
She took a step back and bumped into a Highboy dresser filled with tiny glass bottles and fountain pens.
He pulled her forward. “Careful.”
She closed her eyes. Ms. Grace indeed. Jesus, she’d gone to the back to cool off and not rip his head off. Now, all she wanted to do was slug him.
Or rip his clothes off.
It was a toss-up.
Neither was happening, but the fantasies were running neck and neck. How the hell was she going to get through this festival? She sidestepped him and his scent slid over her like a purring cat winding around her ankles. Like vanilla had sex with sandalwood and wrapped it in a fresh sheet off the clothesline.
The unfairness was all of the wrong with a side helping of cruel.
He caught her wrist. “Iz—”
She swung her gaze back up to his. The fight was there in his eyes. It probably echoed in her own.
The muscle in his jaw flexed as he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. We agreed to the three nights and I’m going to make this work. Money’s not an object.”
She straightened and freed her hand. “It’s not about the money.”
“Funny, I think you mentioned that was exactly the problem.”
