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“If that’s so, sucks to be you.” Lila turned away and opened the door to the jeweler’s shop.
His hand—stupidly large, with ridiculously long, dexterous fingers—pressed against the glass door and shut it with a decisive click. He loomed over her, taller by a good half a foot, but she wasn’t used to feeling dwarfed by anyone of any size. She walked tall, stood taller. Never let herself be cowed by anyone. Outwardly anyway.
But Nick was an exception. She wouldn’t say he intimidated her, with his size or otherwise. No, he never made her feel afraid.
Just very, very aware.
“I’m not into old flames. They burn you more often that not.” He spoke close to her hair—close enough she could tell he’d been smoking again. He quit every other week, but the smell wasn’t repugnant as it should have been. On him, the scents of leather and smoke became a sultry tease, a reminder of all she couldn’t have.
Had never had, in any real capacity.
“Current ones can do that too,” she said, oddly breathless, staring through the glass to where a man in a suit and a woman in a teal dress showed customers their finery. But they might as well have been miles away, trapped inside an antiseptic moneyed world while she was locked out.
Withhim.
His ridiculously gigantic hand flexed against the door just above her head. “Oh, I’m sure. I don’t have any of those, myself. What about you, sweetness? Is your husband your current flame?”
“You need to back up,” she said, resisting the urge to turn and poke her finger in his chest. Not because he didn’t deserve a good hard poke, but because she wasn’t about to put their faces in close proximity. No way. “You’re overstepping.”
“Am I? Is that because you’re technically my boss?” He flicked his fingers over the ends of her hair and she was pretty sure her spine shivered. “Or is it because you’re a married woman?”
“No. It’s because if you don’t, I’ll step so hard on your foot that you’ll end up with a stiletto heel protruding between your toes.”
“Hmm. Threats of violence. So unlike such a civilized sort as yourself.” Though he waited another beat, he finally eased back enough for her to reach for the door. Before she could open it herself, he did the honors, gesturing for her to go inside. “After you, Mrs. Shawcross.”
Inhaling sharply, she strode inside and smiled at Mr. Phelps, the man she’d spoken to on the phone. “Hello. I’m Lila Shawcross, and I called to pick up—”
“The Duffy rings. Yes, yes, of course. I’m sorry they weren’t correctly sized. Normally we have procedures in place to ensure that something like this never occurs. Unfortunately, Stacey is new, and—”
“It’s fine.” Lila waved it off. She just wanted to get this over with as fast as humanly possible. “I have a hand you can use to ensure the rings will work.”
Mr. Phelps frowned. “Well, yes, you’re a woman, but for Mr. Duffy’s…”
“Use his,” she said, jerking a chin in Nick’s general direction. He slouched at her side, staring anywhere but at the miles of diamond rings in the case. She imagined a wedding band would be like a ball and chain around Mr. Commitment Phobe’s throat.
“He’s approximately the same size as Mr. Duffy?”
“No. Not even close. Add about three in—”
“Enough,” Lila barked, hating that she could feel her cheeks heating. He would know how well Gray was built too, because he’d seen it up close and personal. Though she didn’t doubt he was just posturing about his own endowments.
She so wasn’t considering what three inches more would be like, since Jasmine hadn’t hesitated to tell her that Gray wasn’t exactly the size of a cocktail shrimp. Irrelevant information in all ways. She was Oblivion’s manager, not their personal physician, for God’s sake.
“This won’t take long,” Mr. Phelps said, clearly ready to get the surly, sex-posturer out of his rarefied shop.
She didn’t blame him. Nick was anti-couth. Anti-classy.
Anti-all of the things she’d been surrounded with since childhood.
She moved forward and held out her hand. Her right, not her left. She’d never taken off her wedding band, though she should have a long time ago. In this case, her sentimentality was ill-placed, since her husband didn’t feel similarly. He hadn’t worn his ring since a few months after the ceremony seven years ago. She wasn’t sure he even still owned it.
Hocked it for drugs, probably. Not because he needed the money—far from it—but just to prove a point. She might be beholden to him, but that road was a one-way street.
Mr. Phelps took her hand and she would’ve sworn Nick growled deep in his throat. She cut him a sharp look and found his face held no reaction at all. His golden cat eyes were glazed like ice. Impermeable.
“You’re a bit larger than Ms. Edwards.” Mr. Phelps rubbed his thumb over her knuckles while he consulted his notes. Again, there was a sound from Nick, muffled and dark. Like an angry wolf lurking in the bushes, ready to snap.
This time she didn’t look. She didn’t want to know if it was wishful thinking that he was even paying attention.
