His gaze flicks from the half-eaten cookie up to mine. “I’m just enjoying the consternation on your face at not finishing that.” He tugs at one of my curls and emotions slide through my middle at the tender action. I don’t…well, I don’t know what to do with them—the emotionsorthe tenderness. “I’m impressed, cookie,” he says. “But remind me to never take you on in an eating contest.”
“Is that why you call mecookie?” I ask suddenly.
Maybe he’d noticed me downing the free—and delicious—food at the gala. They’d had platters and platters of cookies from Molly’s. So many, in fact, that I had contemplated stuffing some in my purse to take home.
Alas, my handbag wasn’t big enough.
I would have ended up with just crumbs.
His lips twitch. “No, gorgeous.”
“Then why?” I press.
He tilts his head from side to side, studying me intently. “I had a dog named Cookie.” One shoulder lifts, drops. “You remind me of her.”
“I-I remind you of adog?”I sputter.
“Yup.” A beat. “Her coat was the same color as your hair.”
It takes me a second to realize it—the man is teasing me.
And I don’t know how to process that either. His eyes are dancing, but his words aren’t a pointed comment about me eating too much or that I need to fix my hair. It’s like he’s actually impressed, like he actually is into my crazy mass of curls…and is that something men are with women like me?
Not normally.
And…more mental circles. I’ve got a tornado happening in there now.
“I like to eat,” I mutter. “And genetics gave me the hair.”
“And Cookie too.” His mouth kicks up. “But I like to eat, gorgeous, so I’m just glad you enjoy something I do.” He picks up a slice of apple, starts munching on it. “Though, I can’t say that extends to TV.” A jerk of his chin toward the screen. “You can’t seriously watch this, can you?”
“I’ll have you know that I’m fully aware that trash TV is trash TV.”
He finishes the apple slice, sips on his wine. “What about it appeals to you?”
Maybe I could brush that off as a judgmental question if he didn’t look so earnest.
But it’s like he’s actually interested in my answer.
So, I don’t dismiss him with a quip. Instead, I stop, ponder that. It’s not something I’ve thought about all that much. “It’s an escape, I guess,” I say quietly. “I love my job, but it’s stressful and involves a lot of travel. Sometimes it’s nice to just turn off my brain for a while and watch people act like idiots on TV.”
He considers the screen for a long moment. “Well, you certainly have the idiot part right.”
“Excuse me, sir,” I mock grumble. “They’re notallidiots.”
“I’ll remind you that you were the one using the term.”
“I saidactinglike idiots, not that they are them.” Though, to be fair, some of my favorite reality TV personalitiesareidiots.
“Touché,” he murmurs. “So, it’s the escapism,” he goes on before I can press my point further. I get that. Though, my preferred mode of escaping reality is through sports.” He snags the remote, points it at the screen, bringing the feed of the Eagles’ game back up.
“I—”
Another click has it swinging back to my show, cutting off my protest.
He tugs my errant curl again. “Just checking the score.”
I’m so undone by that touch, by his closeness, by the fact that heturnedit back, that I forget myself for a moment.
