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He was such a fake, pretending he knew apple varieties. “They’re only the most delicious tasting apples in all the known universe.”
He leaned against the bar, chewing, watching her. “So, tell me, why not? What’s the problem? If you don’t already have plans…”
“What makes you think I don’t have plans for Christmas Eve?”
“I assumed you would have said something already if you did. Do you?”
She looked up at the ceiling, pressing her lips together.
“As I was saying, assuming you’re free tonight...is there anything I can offer you to change your mind?”
She opened her mouth to trounce him. Then caught him in the act of checking her out—all of her, including the heels that had replaced the novelty slippers.
Hypocrite!Shewas a flirt? Turns out Mr. Prude Dude with the Attitude here had his own distinct line in sexy gazes. Why on earth he would use one on her now was anybody’s guess…but if he was trying a spot of manipulation, he’d find himself getting that apple shoved down his throat.
Then she caught him lingering too long on her mouth. Oh, for heaven’s sake. He was taking this fake flirting thing too far.
Fine. Two could play this game.
She ran her eyes down his body, landing impudently on the front of his pants.Purelyto prove a point, of course, to let him know she was onto him…then stopped chewing.
Okay, this was one thing the man was definitely not faking. The area around his crotch was distinctly tented.
In light of this new, intriguing data, Paula was forced to re-process his last question.What can I offer you to change your mind?
She chewed and swallowed, then declared, adamantly, “Not that!”
The reproach was meant to put some shame into him. It utterly failed in its mission, judging by his, “If you really mean that, then please go change your outfit.”
“Saywhat? What did you say?”
“I said please put on a bra.”
Thefuck. “You did not just say that to me.”
He expelled a breath. “That came out wrong, I’m sorry.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Ms. Paula Raymond, I say this in full recognition of your right to wear whatever clothing you care to wear in your own home. But please. Take that incredible body of yours and...cover it up with something less alluring. A sack. A rug. Anything, as long as there’s a bra involved. Please. You’re torturing me, honeycrisp.”
Incrediblebody? Torturing? She stared at him, looking for other signs of insanity.
Except for the shoes and lack of bra, this was basically work wear for her. From what she’d seen of his taste in women, it ran to willowy, tall types with hollow tummies who dressed to stand out, with their makeup always in place.
In short, she was the exact opposite of the type to give Bastian Spencer raging boners.
That thing down there was an anomaly, a mysterious, unexplained phenomenon rather like a flying saucer—let’s call it an unexplained erect object—and nothing to do with the tits and ass of her. Her suspicious nature dubbed this nothing but deflection.
“My name is nothoneycrisp. And the status of my underwear happens to be none of your business.”
“I beg to differ. I’m the one who has to look at you.”
“Nor are...oh, now,hey,” as that registered. “I’ve got news for you,golden delicious.It was your idea to come in here. You’re the one who controls where your eyes go, not me. Were you born in a cave?”
She ignored his visible amusement. Apparently he was not impressed with the fruity insult she’d flung back at him.
“Nobody told you to go looking at me. And for your information, my bras are for my convenience. You want to make bra decisions, you go put one on yourself. I’ve been choosing my own outfits since I was eight years old.”
“I’m sure you have,” he murmured. “I’ll say it again, I’m not trying to insult you. If anything, I’m trying my damnedestnotto insult you.”
“That implies that you want to. Pretty insulting, if you ask me!”
