His deep-set eyes might have mileage on them, but they still see everything. “Like either you’ve started wearing lipstick, or you been kissing a woman.”
“It was nothing.”
“You haven’t kissed a woman in over four years, and you call this nothing?”
“It was an accident.”
“That’s a first. Never heard of a man tripping into a woman’s lips before.”
“It was a mistake then. She’s just someone I met through Mick and Dee Peters, a good friend of theirs.”
“So, you know her?”
“Not really,” I say, because how can you really know anyone?
“Seems like you’re attracted to her but don’t want to be.”
That about sums it up.
“What’s her name?”
“What difference does it make?”
“What’s her name, Junior?” he persists.
“Jordyn Sinclair.”
“What does the lady do?”
“Do?”
“Her work…career? Most women have ’em these days.”
“She’s an architect.”
“Must be smart,” he says, impressed.
“Probably.”
“Where does she live?”
“In Brockville.”
“Nice community.”
“Guess so.” I take a long drink, hoping this conversation is coming to an end. Undeterred—seeing potential where there is none—he keeps on lobbing question after question.
“Good family?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s she like?”
“What do you mean?”
“Her disposition? Personality?”
“She’s forward.” And fiery. Everything about her is like a flaming torch. The heat in those greenish-brown eyes. Her response to me. Her temper.
