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“Katerina.”
I scowl at him, folding my arms across my chest. “What do you want?”
A slow smile that I think is meant to charm me tugs at the corner of his mouth. “That’s a very pretty top.”
He walks closer, examining the fabric.
“Stop deflecting with false compliments,” I tell him. “And stop ogling me.”
“The compliment was genuine, and I’m not ogling you, Katydid. I’m appreciating the print. Also trying to figure it out. I thought it was paisley, but...” His smile deepens. “Are thosepiranhas?”
“They are. Watch out. They’re not the only thing on me that bites.”
His gaze drifts to my mouth. “That’s not the threat you think it is, Kate.”
That was definitely sexual. And unlike the awkwardness of those strange women talking about pegging and feet, Christopher holding my eyes as he says that makes my whole body flush. Heat rushes up my throat and floods my cheeks.
He watches its progression and smiles his widest smile yet. All bright teeth and wide, sensual mouth.
Doing my best to ignore that I’m blushing head to toe, I ask him, “What do you want, Christopher?”
His expression sobers. It’s so reminiscent of last night, which I still can’t begin to let myself think about—what we saidorthat kiss. If I think about it, I might believe him, and if I believe him—that he’s sorry, that our dynamic (which I can admit I’ve played a healthy role in) got away from us, that he doesn’t hate me—I don’t know what will happen, what I’ll feel.
How badly I could get hurt if I ended up being wrong.
“Can we talk?” he asks quietly.
I arch an eyebrow. “Need I remind you what happened last time you led with that request? I’ll give you a hint. It was last night and it involved—”
“All right,” he says, that smooth facade cracking as he steps closer. “Just... hear me out. Right here, okay?”
“Fine.”
“I have a proposition for you,” he says. And then he immediately realizes how that came out. His eyes widen. A rare rush of pink warms his cheeks. “I—wait. Just—”
“Mm-hmm.” I shift my weight onto one hip, stony-faced.
He clears his throat. “I’m going to try that again.”
“By all means.”
“I have abusinessproposition. Strictly professional.”
“Does it involve me working for you?”
He smiles. “Not really. Just under my roof. My company’s.”
“I’m good, thanks.”
His smile falls. “Kate.”
“Christopher.”
“It’s business. Good business.”
“I know,” I tell him. “I’m more than a good photographer. I’m great. It would begreatbusiness for you. But you could not pay me enough to spend all day rubbing shoulders with you and your money-grubbers—”
“Who grub money for good things,” he says patiently. “Which you already know. You met Hugh. He’s a class act, isn’t he?”
