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I jump a foot in the air, nearly falling off my stool. "Jesus Christ, Super-spy Finn Taylor!" I scrunch my nose up to glare at him. "Give a girl a heart attack, why don't you?"
He eyes me levelly. Mostly. A fire burns in those green pools, raging like a midnight inferno. My stupid-hot biker is not very happy with me right now.
I sink my teeth into my bottom lip, trying to fight a smile.
"You don't like the book?" I ask sweetly.
"This book is not like the others, Scarlett," he growls. "I don't like it. He's a lying, manipulative asshole who doesn't deserve to breathe the same air as a woman." His gaze flits across my face, his palms planted on the counter. "And he isn't in the mafia."
"But readers love him, Finn," I tease. Truthfully, everyone hates the book for the exact reasons he mentioned. Reviewers decimated it for being misogynistic propaganda masquerading as romance. But Finn came in being all hot and bossy this morning, so I wanted to make him squirm a little.
He makes a distressed sound. "Youlike this book?"
"Dark romance is still romance."
He narrows his eyes on me. "I didn't ask about dark romance, pretty baby. I asked about this book. Do you find this book romantic?" he asks, his voice soft. "Is this how you think you should be treated by a man?"
"No," I whisper.
"Good," he growls, satisfaction flaring in his eyes. "Because this is bullshit. No one worthy of you should ever treat you like less than the absolute fucking goddess you are, Scarlett. A man who deserves you fights for you. He doesn't cheat. He doesn't lie. He doesn't manipulate. And he damn sure doesn't run."
I swallow hard, searching for a response, but none comes. My gaze tangles with his and I get lost in the sincerity blazing in his eyes. He means every word he just spoke.
He thinks I'm a goddess. Oh, my goodness.
"And just in case it isn't clear, pretty baby," he says, leaning across the counter toward me, his voice pitched so low it grates against my womb. "I'm not running." His lips brush my cheek in a featherlight touch. Little bursts of energy erupt against my skin and then sink bone-deep, threatening to melt me into a little puddle of wicked delight.
I bite my lip, fighting the urge to moan his name.
"Pick a different book and stop fucking with me," he says, gently placing a finger under my chin to close my mouth. "I like the other ones better."
"Okay," I whisper.
He pulls back slowly, giving me that little boy smile.
I fish under the counter for a minute for my bag and then grab my favorite book from inside before holding it out to him. He reaches for it before I quickly pull it back, holding it protectively against my chest. I've read it so many times the lettering on the hardcover is worn thin.
"No judging this one," I say quietly. "It's my favorite."
"I'll behave," he promises gravely.
I reluctantly drop the book into his outstretched hand.
His gaze flits across the cover before he tucks it carefully under his arm.
I stare at him for a minute, my heart fluttering. And then I take a leap of faith.
"Do you want to come to dinner tonight?"
"You asking me out, pretty baby?" he asks, grinning ear to ear.
"What? No!" I gasp, heat leaping into my cheeks. "I'm asking you to come to dinner at Aunt Ophelia's house with me. And my aunt. Obviously, she'll be there too. I mean, it is her house and everything. You don't have to come. Maybe you shouldn't. She wants you to hack mahjong so she can beat Betty LaCroix."
"Isn't Betty in the nursing home?"
"Apparently she's excellent at mahjong," I say with a shrug.
"It's a date."
