“Oh hush, you know you love it when I call you handsome.” She leaned over the booth and pinched his cheek. “Still got that wicked jawline. Lord have mercy.”
“She flirt with everybody like this?” I asked, raising a brow at him.
“Nah,” he muttered, sliding into the booth. “Just me. Been her favorite since I learned to ride a bike.”
“You mean since you got arrested on her front lawn tryin’ to impress her granddaughter,” she called from the counter, pouring us sweet tea. “He was thirteen, shirtless, and drunk off cherry cough syrup. I should’ve whooped his ass.”
He shrugged. “You did.”
“Damn right I did,” she said, laughing as she walked over with two plates already in hand. “Now eat before I get sentimental and start tellin’ stories he doesn’t want you hearin’. Y’all gonna love the shrimp po’ boy. Made it myself. Full of sin.”
She winked, then strutted back behind the counter.
I looked at him across the booth, my mouth twitchin’ with a grin. “Shedefinitelyloves you.”
“Eat up. It’ll be the best po’boy sandwich you will ever taste.
A few minutes later, I was chewing on the remnants of the most delicious sandwich I’ve ever had. The bread was gone, and only a small spicy bite was left and I moaned as I took the last bite. Hellsing sat across from me, watching me over the rim ofhis beer with that annoying tilt to his mouth that said he was waiting for trouble. He’d been quiet since we arrived. As if he were both contemplating asking me something yet keeping it to himself.
“Can I ask you something without you biting my head off?” he suddenly broke the silence.
I sucked the sauce off one of my thumbs to avoid his questioning eyes. “What?”
“Why doyou hate me so much?”
My eyes lockedon him as I paused for a second before setting my sandwich down. It was an honest question, and I wasn’t really sure how to respond to it. Because, in truth, I didn’t think I ever hated him.
He watched me long enough that the color drained from my face and I pretended not to care, flagging down a waiter with the back of my hand because my coleslaw never showed itself at our table. The waiter, of course, disappeared around a corner.
“The service here sucks,” I mutter, still avoiding his gaze.
Hellsing’s stare gets thicker with impatience. “Why are you avoiding the question, Gracie?”
“Avoiding? I’m not. And don’t call me that. My Dad is the only one who gets to call me that.”
“Isn’t that what you call a child?”
“Smartass, I glared at him. It’s not important whether I hate you or not,” I answered, more flippant than I feel.
He leaned back against the seat, his hands neatly folded in front of him, the light catching the scar at his eyebrow. “Maybe not to you, but it is to me.”
I stared across at him, and a challenge ran through us.
“You’re not letting this go.”
“Not a chance in hell.”
I sigh. “Fine. I don’t hate you. Happy?”
He leaned closer so the backs of his fingers brush mine at the edge of the table. The touch is small, but it sets a spark under my skin that I chased away with the tip of my tongue. Every time Hellsing touched me, my body betrayed me.
“Then why are you always pulling away?” he asked.
“Because I can’t stand you. You’re arrogant, obnoxious and an ego-maniac.”
His smile was slow and predatory. “But you don’t hate me?”
I shake my head and go for another bite, this time of a fry. “No.”
