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"Is that due to your military stint or because you’re British?"
His lips twitch, before he schools his features into that expressionless, yet gorgeous, granite-like-façade he calls his face.
"Is that a personal question?" he rumbles
"Of course not." I swerve my head in his direction. Bastard has a smug look on his face. He’s having way too much fun at my expense. I curl my fingers around my handbag. "You know what? I’m leaving." I begin to rise to my feet and he touches my arm.
Shockwaves course under my skin. My belly tightens. My heart collides with my ribcage. My pulse rate shoots up, and fuck-fuck-fuck, what the hell is this response to his mere touch?
He must feel it, too, for he freezes. His green eyes flash for a second. He stares at me with something like shock, then pulls back his hand.
I instantly jump to my feet. "I do need to get back."
"So, you don’t want to hear about the proposition I have for you?"
"Proposition?" I blink.
"Something that will help us both make the most of a bad situation?"
I scowl at him. "Why are you being so conciliatory?"
"Because, contrary to your preconceived notions about me, I’m not all unreasonable."
"Preconceived notions?" I snort, and against my better judgement, sit down on the bench again. It’s more prudent if I leave. Nothing he has to tell me can be that important.
Also, I must have been imagining the response of my body to his touch. Those kinds of things only happen in the movies or in my smutty novels. I didn’t feel every imprint of his finger on my skin as if he’d branded me forever. I tuck my elbows into my sides and square my shoulders. If I knew what was good for me I’d leave but, I’m not going to run away. I’m not.
"My notions are based on how disagreeable you’ve been so far." I jut out my chin. "How obnoxious you’ve been, not to mention, bad-tempered, ill-humored, crabby, irritable, grumpy, peevish—"
"Do you carry around a dictionary in your head?"
I snort. "Just love words, is all."
"Hence the books?" He tilts his head. "What’s your fave?"
I glance away then back at him. "War and Peace."
"War and Peace, huh?" He looks at me with something like respect in his eyes. "Isn’t that Tolstoy’s longest work?"
It’s my turn to look at him with surprise. "Not many men would know that."
"I’m not many men; my grandmother loves to read."
"She does?" I know I’m engaging in conversation with the enemy, but getting an insight into him, however brief, is more fascinating than I expected.
"Only—" He glances around then crooks his finger in my direction. I lean in; so does he. He looks into my eyes. "She loves to read smut."
"Your grandma reads smut?" I know I’m gaping, and who am I to judge? I love my smutty books, and Rick’s grandmother has a right to read them, too, right?
"She loves spicy romance novels. In fact, she started a book club so she and her friends could exchange notes on their favorite spicy scenes."
"Oh?" I blink slowly.
"It’s wonderful she’s a reader; makes it easy to buy her gifts. For Mother’s Day this year, guess what I got her?"
"What?" I murmur. I’m not sure I want to know. Except,I dowant to know. "What did you get her?"
"A Kindle."
