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“Slash, I…I…”
“Yes.”
I frowned. “Yes, what?”
“Whatever you were going to ask me that you’re too chicken shit to ask me, my answer is yes.”
I huffed. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Call me out like that?”
He shrugged. “Why do you put up such a front? What are you trying to ask me, Brooklyn?”
The way he said my name made me shiver.
“Would you”—I took a deep breath—“like to come upstairs?”
“For coffee?”
I shook my head.
“Tea?”
I shook my head again.
“Pie?”
“Pie?”
“You own a bakery,” he pointed out.
“No coffee, tea, or pie.”
He stared at me. “I’m a Nomad.”
“I know.”
“I don’t do relationships.”
“Even better.”
“I’m leaving town in the morning,” he went on like he hadn’t heard my quip. “One night is all this can ever be.”
“One night.” I nodded.
He removed his hand from the steering wheel and reached out to cup my cheek, turning my face so I was forced to meet his gaze. I could see the heat in his eyes. The want.
“This will be a night you’ll never forget,” he rasped.
I couldn’t stop the full-body shiver that started at the base of my neck and shot down to my toes. “I’m not sure I even like you. You’re arrogant.”
“You like me enough to let that go.” He shrugged. “But you should know, I’ve got two rules.”
“Rules? Of course you do,” I muttered. When he didn’t retort back, I paused. “What are the rules?”
“You don’t ask about my ink, and you don’t ask about my scar.”
