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“You look like you saw a ghost.”
Ha! If he only knew how accurate his assessment was. Certainly couldn’t let that happen, or it would go straight to his head. “Just thinking too hard, that’s all.”
“You got a second?”
I blinked, willing my feet to shuffle backwards, to put a little distance between us so I could stop soaking up the overtly masculine scent of Jameson Rhodes. The man was mouth-watering—literally. But apparently, I’d been fastened to the pavement with tar or superglue, because my rain boots stayed firmly planted. Why my body responded to him the same way it did a platter of chocolate cake, I would never understand. What the hell did he want a second for? And why on God’s green earth did it make me anxious under the unruly anticipation?
Glancing around for an out or an ally and coming up empty, I finally sighed and said, “Um, yeah, sure.”
“Great,” he said curtly, giving me a nod of equal enthusiasm before turning me towards the end of the row and dropping his hold from my arm. Somehow, simultaneous relief and loathing washed over me at the absence.
Well, okay then. I guess we’re walking.
Jameson led me down and around the row of tents, strolling us out towards the docks. When he had a decent buffer between us and the festivities, he rounded on me, concern carved between his brows.
“I need you to be honest with me.”
My stomach twisted, throat aching as I fought to swallow. I nodded, trying not to cower under the intensity of his gaze.
“Who are you?”
I blinked before scowling up at him and crossing my arms. When in doubt, sports were generally enough to shake a man off a trail, which led me to blurt out, “Is this a trick question, Jorge? Because I’m lost.”
“Jorge?”
“The giant.” Jorge González–God rest his soul–had been my younger brother’s absolute obsession when we were growing up. He’d played basketball before becoming the WWE’s tallest wrestler of all time, inspiring Alex’s admiration way past the man’s untimely death.
He gave an indignant snort. “I’m notthattall.”
“But you play basketball.”
“Not like Jorge.”
Honestly, I was a little surprised that he’d gotten the reference, although his knowledge of sports legends was probably drastically larger than mine.
“You say tomato, I say—”
“Don’t finish that sentence. Focus, Red.” Had he ever called me Red? I wasn’t sure he’d ever called me anything other thanLizzyor kaleidoscope, or Skittles, or perhaps, spawn of demons.
“What am I focused on?”
“Look. I know you’re not who you’ve told us you are. This is my town. My family. If there’s trouble, like hell am I not doing some research.” If he wasn’t pestering me about something I absolutely had no intention of talking about in a public setting, it might have been cute—this protective side under all the gruff responses.
“Are you high?” I narrowed my eyes up at him.
“Funny.”
“I don’t meandistance to the earth.”
“I knew what you meant,” he bit out.
“If you say so, Andre.”
He wrestled that scowl into three pointed blinks. “Roussimoff?”
“Points for a surprising trivia arsenal. Do you play down at Bailey’s on Saturdays?” The town had been buzzing about the weekly trivia night, and something about that was endlessly endearing. Maybe I’d met my match for random, useless facts that could never apply to life outside it.
“Milo lovesThe Princess Bride. Though your reference was topical, at best.”
