The tiny tot was back at flirting?
‘Oh, I have fun,’ he said deliberately slowly. ‘But I’m selective about who I have fun with.’
‘That’s very wise.’ She nodded guilelessly. ‘I’m very selective myself.’
Oh, really? His muscles sharpened. ‘How much fun have you had?’
Her lashes drooped; she almost pouted. ‘Not enough.’
He determinedly looked past her so he wouldn’t be tempted to touch those full lips. ‘Looks like you’ve been having a bit.’ He nodded towards the empty bottle in the middle of the dining table.
She turned to see what he meant.
‘Oh, that...’ she swung back, her smile impish, ‘...was good.’
He took the opportunity of her movement to step past her into the room. And was dead unimpressed with what he could see. Furniture from one corner to the other. Furniture on top of furniture, boxes above and below. A tiny single stretcher crammed under the window was her bed? He winced at its obvious discomfort—hard and definitely too short for him. How could she stand it?
‘You can’t be serious about living here,’ he said, all grump again.
‘Why not?’ she answered coldly.
‘There’s noroom.’ There wasn’t an inch of spare floor space. A half meter square in which to get in from the door and then, bam,stuff.
‘There’s more than enough room for me.’
He looked down at her—too close—in the too small space. Quickly he looked back to the table, anything to stop himself taking rampant advantage of the lack of space. He noticed an ‘H’ written in permanent marker in the top corner of the wine label. ‘What’s the H for?’
She glanced at the table and her expression turned guilty.
Why?‘Got any more?’ he couldn’t help teasing.
He glanced round; behind him was a fridge. He shot her a look and reached out a hand. It was literally a bar fridge—and, yes, filled with alcohol. He hadn’t actually expected that. The only other item was an oversized container of hummus.
‘How many bottles you got in here?’ He held the door open, amazed.
‘Five,’ she said defensively. ‘And they’re only half bottles.’
He drew one out, saw the single capital letter on the label, bent and saw they each had different letters. ‘What do they stand for?’
Roxie folded her arms, never going to admit that she’d blown his rent advance on getting her hair done, some new underwear and half a dozen half-bottles of champagne. ‘None of your business.’
‘No, go on, they obviously mean something.’ Relentlessly he waited.
‘All right, H was for getting my hair done.’ She defiantly ran her fingers through her hair, flicking it so it fell over her shoulder, almost long enough to cover her breast. Almost. ‘I’d waited ages for that.’
And she’d drunk it early—to celebrate getting her tenant and the moneyforthe haircut. She watched him drag his gaze from the ends of her hair back to the bottles in the fridge.
‘What about the P?’ he asked.
‘For my first public performance.’ She stepped forward, quickly trying to explain them all so he’d leave. Trying to think up something for the one whose purpose was flashing neon-sign style in her head. ‘T is for when I book my ticket overseas. D is for when I get my driver’s license.’ She winced when she said that one—now he’d really think she was a kid. ‘A was for the audition—getting through to the Blades. I’m going to have it later.’
‘Who are you going to have it with?’ he asked.
You?Roxie slammed her mouth shut on the instant-response answer and took a half-second to come up with something sassier. ‘It’s only a half-bottle. I’m going to have it all by myself.’
His brows lifted. ‘Did you have the first all by yourself?’
‘Absolutely.’ She smiled, pleased with her ability to keep talking in the face of his gorgeousness.
