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And what could she do after that but joke?
“So are you going to stab your own face out?”
“If you must know, I’m seriously considering it.”
“Hopefully you’re also considering where I should dump you. Because truth be told I’m not very up on the recent developments in body disposal. I’m much more of adoing children’s tapestriesandbaking fun-shaped biscuitssort of person.”
As soon as she’d said that last part, she wished she hadn’t.
Mostly because it was the sort of thing that men like him sneered at.
Only, he didn’t.
Instead, it was like she’d never said it.
“It’s the Thames, you put their dead bodies in the Thames, so people will just think they were drunk and fell in. Though of course now I’ve said that I feel like I probably shouldn’t have to a woman who already believes I’m a maniac. Swear to god, I’ve never dropped a person in a river,” he said.
At which point, she had to concede:
He was a lot more reasonable than she had initially thought.
Or anyone thought, to be honest, because almost nobody seemed to think he was a remotely thoughtful person. She knewthey didn’t, because not one piece of research she’d done on him had ever revealed anything else. There were interviews out there that described him as the most impossible man ever to live. One of his teammates was asked to use three words to describe him, and all three had beenannoying. And that made it difficult to know what to make of this.
So she decided it was best to just stick with mild teasing.
“That’s good, but now I’m thinking you’ve dropped an alive one in there,” she said, and she was glad she did, too. It kept her looking cool, and he didn’t react too angrily. He just seemed frustrated in a way that was surprisingly not that unpleasant to watch. And neither was seeing him scramble for an answer.
“Look, he pushed me first. And I got him back out, you can ask anyone.”
“And byanyonehere do you mean your defense lawyer?”
“I don’t have a defense lawyer. He vowed to never work with me again.”
He said the words like they were the exact perfect argument to make.
Then seemed to slowly realize that they were not.
“God. Please just stop making me say things,” he groaned.
Much to her bemusement. “But you haven’t said anything. I still don’t know why you don’t have a sofa. Or more importantly why the heck you did all this.”
“Well, I’m trying to tell you. If you’d give me a second.”
“So go ahead then. Start with insulting my size.”
“When the fuck did I do that?”
God, he sounded genuinely confused, she thought.
His voice actually went high for a second. Even though she’d thought it couldn’t get anywhere above a fucked Ford Fiesta revving its engine. And he threw up his hands, too. Despite clearly hating to make any kind of gesture other than an eyebrow raise or a pointed finger.
So it wasn’t a surprise that her response sounded faint.
That it lacked confidence in this whole premise she’d built up.
“You told me I was a cupcake,” she said, and sure enough, he snorted in response. Then shot her such a look. A pointed look, like she couldn’t be serious.
Before he laid it all out. “Because you seem so sweet I’m afraid of getting sugar poisoning just from looking at you. Not because I’m one of those twats who thinks any woman over a size zero is some kind of personal affront to them,” he said, and not even in a smug or swaggering way, either. He was quite patient, all things considered. Quite gentle.
