Riley's lips turned down in a sharp frown as he eyed my hair. "I can't imagine why you've abandoned that practice," he said with a chuckle. Then he folded his forearms on the table and leaned toward me. "What d'you say? Are we ready for nextweekend?"
Wiping my hands on a paper napkin, I shrugged. "That really depends on how far you're looking to take theseshenanigans."
"Shenanigans," he repeated. He stared at me, his eyes twinkling like I'd spoken a secret incantation. A smile pulled at his lips, and power surged through me. I'd put that smile on his face, even if I didn't understand its origin. I wanted to do it again, regardless of whether I didn't want to know him or like him or any other lie I'd sold myself. "I'm ready for anything,Shortstop."
I reached into my purse. "Let's get out of here," I said. "I can't do work-weekhangovers."
"Why am I not surprised?" Riley mused, his eyes trained on the red wallet in myhands.
"I happen to like red," I said. It came out as a challenge, and his answering smirk told me he'daccepted.
He gestured over my shoulder toward the bar, and then turned his attention to my lips. It was then that we were both leaning forward, and only a breath apart. It was almost as if we'd forgotten, just for this second, that it was allpretend.
"If we were really—uh—whatever," he said, jerking his shoulder to discard the nuances contained inwhatever, "I'd probably know all about how you liked your red. Whether it was all for show, or also for your secrets." His eyes shifted down, and he tilted his head as if he was trying to see beneath my shirt. "I'd know how you likedeverything."
"Here you go. Thanks for stopping intonight."
My heart pounding, I jolted back into my chair when the server dropped the bill—and Riley's credit card—on the table. My cheeks were burning and my mouth was dry, and I wanted to rewind time by about thirty seconds so I could punch the server in the balls before he could interrupt the single most sensual moment of myentirelife.
That was either a comment on Riley's ability to make the mundane memorable, or the pathetic state of my sensual encounters. I wasn't interested in proving either of thosehypotheses.
I watched while he signed the receipt and tucked his card away. "You've already paid," I snapped. I did that often. The snapping, but also the yelling, slamming, and stomping. It wasn't intentional. It was just how I operated, and I'd stopped worrying about whether people took offense at my sharpedges.
"I'd said I would. You can get the next one, dude,"hesaid.
Dude. That was quite the fall from where we were only a breath ago. But this was the deal. The mutually beneficial arrangement that looked real and felthollow.
"Yeah. Thanks,dude," I said, working hard to put as much icy cold indifference into my voice as I could find. All that came out was fire. Needy,resentfulfire.
"Sure. Whatever," he murmured. From under the table, he produced a worn leather messenger bag. He slipped his notebook and phone inside, and swung it across his chest as he stood. "Shallwe?"
We made our way through the narrow tavern and out onto the sidewalk. We stood there, shooting glimpses at each other while we watched the traffic and pedestrians near the PublicGarden.
"Where do you live?" Iasked.
"Fort Point," he replied, dipping his hands into his pockets."My brother Sam bought an old waterfront firehouse from the city a couple of years ago. It'd been condemned and was one hiccup away from collapsing in on itself, but we restored it." He lifted his shoulders and then let them drop. "It's a big place, so we both have our own sides. His wife makes amazing meatballs." Another shrug, another opportunity to drool over the mountain range known as his shoulders. "I stick around for themeatballs."
"Is that farfromhere?"
The way he was peering at me indicated we were probably in Fort Point right now and I'd somehow missed that information in the years since moving to thisregion.
"Do you know anything about Boston?" he asked. "Anythingatall?"
"This is my fourth city in fifteen years, not including the summers I bounced all over the country for various programs and internships. And even then, I wasn't there to see the sights or meet the locals. During my sub-internship, I had every fifteenthdayoff."
"That's insane," hemurmured.
"Pretty much, but it's getting better. My training is finished and my schedule isn't as terrible these days. Nick and Cal and I went hiking once, and we've hit up the bars and restaurants around the hospital," I said. "But to answer your question, no. I don't know much aboutBoston."
He nodded down the street, in the direction of my apartment. "We're going to fix that," he said. "I'll tell you about the north slope of Beacon Hill—that's where you live—while I walk you home. You probably didn't know that this side of the neighborhood used to be known as Mount Whoredom during the Revolutionary War. Beacon Street was a lane for cowgrazing."
"You're not walking me to my apartment," I said, ignoring that helping of trivia. "That's not necessary. I got here just fine. I can get home withoutissue."
Slowly, he dragged his gaze from the street and leveled it at me. It was hot and demanding and not even close to friendly. "I'm sure you can, Alex. I'm going to do itanyway."
This time, I couldn't hold back the sigh. It was lost in the city noise and light summer breeze, but it was a bridge-crosser.
ChapterEight
