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“No.”
“Are you sure? Maybe you should double check the car.”
Ah hell, she does have an awful impression of me. “I…that…” I start to explain.
“You don’t owe me an explanation, Playboy. I just wouldn’t want an angry woman storming onto my porch.” She grins.
Chapter 4
Lisa
The Playboy part may have been too much. I only meant it to keep him at arm’s length, to avoid confusing his friendliness with flirting like I did last night, but he looks like I knocked the wind out of him. And dammit, even dejected he’s still the most attractive man I’ve ever seen. His green eyes are just as captivating when the mischievous glint is replaced with, what, regret? Remorse? And the hard line of his locked jaw? Dear Lord.
“That was a compliment,” I blurt. “I mean, I’m sure you have lots of beautiful women storming after you.” He winces. “Not intentionally,” I rush on. “just a byproduct of being pretty. I bet you get chased all over, and there’s bound to be some disappointed ladies in your wake, you know? Not your fault.” Crap, I’m really butchering this.
“I’m a playboy?” He points to his chest.
“You did go on a date because it was easier than saying no to your friend’s wife.”
“That makes me a Playboy?”
“Depends. Was this the first bad date she’s set you up on?”
“Huh?” He seems genuinely confused.
I frown. Did he not understand the question? “Has she set you up before?”
“Yeah, a few times.”
“Well, was this one more or less compatible than the others?”
“Ah, about the same, I guess.” He rubs his jaw.
“And you keep letting her set you up?”
“I told you, it’s easier to give in than fight her on it,” he grunts.
“So, how are you not a Playboy, then?”
“I…I,” he stutters. “Shit. Maybe I am.” He shakes his head. “Sorry. I hope that report is helpful.” He turns to go.
Crap, this is why I tend to have more imaginary friends than real ones; I can re-write conversations that happen on paper, avoiding faux paus like the one I just made. Playboy, really? That’s my idea of politely keeping him at arm’s length? The guy seems genuinely sorry and I’m rubbing it in. Time to start over.
“Don’t apologize,” I call. “I was trying to make a joke. Playboy sounded witty, not rude, in my head. I don’t have any right to comment on your love life. I’m sorry.”
“It was witty,” he says, turning back to face me.
“Really?” I ask, meeting his eyes for the first time and seeing the honesty there. “But you’re upset. I insulted you.”
“You didn’t insult me,” he says, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “You were being honest.”
“Honest about what? You being a playboy, or forgetting about your date, or being chased by lots of women or any of the other things I improperly accused you of?” I smile tentatively.
“You mean anything of the things you correctly accused me of?” He sighs, sounding defeated.
I start to protest, but the words get caught.
“It’s okay, you didn’t insult me, although I’d really like to think I’m not a Playboy. Or pretty,” he says, a trace of a smile tugging briefly at the corner of his mouth before his face fades back into a pained expression. “But I did forget about my date.”
