His eyes do that rare hot and searing thing. “Have you heard of a filter?”
“This from the man who callously said, ‘You’re not my type,’and bragged about the size of his dick after rubbing it against me. Not much of a filter there.”
He inhales a deep breath, expanding his broad chest, then pushes it out. “I could have handled each of those situations better.”
“Is that your idea of an apology?”
“No. It’s a statement of fact.”
Seeing him so unshakable only makes me more determined to rattle his cage. I pick up my plate with my half-eaten pancakes, cold now, and take it to the kitchen, tempting his eyes to follow my retreat. I dump what’s left of my breakfast and open the dishwasher, making a big production of bending over. The shorts slide up, showing him more of my bare assets. Stiles may be Robocop, but I know from our kiss—whatever the motivation—that he’s not as indifferent to me as he pretends to be.
After keeping my butt in the air for a count of ten, I straighten and pivot around. My gaze lifts past that sexy goatee surrounding an even sexier mouth, now pulled in a stern line. His eyes are narrowed, and his brow is pleated over the strong thrust of his nose—which, for the king of the BOTOX expression, isn’t a simple feat. Good. I hope he’s hot and bothered. I’m not feeling too cool and composed myself.
“Are we done here, Jasper? I’m missing the game.”
“I have a few questions.”
Ignoring him, I stride past all that pulsing tension and plop down on the couch, kicking my bare feet onto the coffee table. His eyes scan the length of my legs as I cross my ankles and turn the game back on.
“This is serious, Ms. Sinclair.”
“So, you’ve indicated, repeatedly.”
“Tell me about the flat tire.”
“I thought Dee already told you. Some thugs made two long knife gashes close to the rim.”
He visibly stills, more than usual. “Are you sure it was a knife?”
“Given they were clean slices, I’d say so. But the police will confirm, I guess. They took the tire with them.”
“What about the broken basement window? I see that it’s been boarded up.”
“Yep.” My eyes toggle between him and the game. “Freddy, he’s a tenant…well, not a tenant exactly, his mother’s the tenant. He’s been living with her while he looks for work or something. Anyhow, yesterday he noticed it had been smashed with a rock or maybe a hammer. He was kind enough to cover it up, even though I told him Phil, my maintenance guy, could do it.”
“How did this Freddy happen to come across the broken window?”
“He’s sort of assigned himself as building security, or his mother assigned him. Who knows? They’re both a little weird. But they mean well.”
“What’s Freddy’s last name?”
“Why?” I slide my gaze back over to him.
“I’ll look into his background.”
“No, you won’t. Freddy did not break the window or slash my tire.”
“How would you know that?”
“He’s just not the type.”
“People aren’t always as they appear on the surface,” he warns. “Don’t underestimate anyone, including your tenants.”
“Chill out, Jasper. My tenants have all been vetted. Freddy’s mother is a widowed retiree, the young couple beside her are lovely and mind their own business, and the single male tenant on the top floor is a pilot who’s rarely around. But when he is, he’s very polite and friendly. See? Nothing suspicious or nefarious.”
“And everyone thought Ted Bundy was a good guy too, except for his victims.”
“Wow.” I shake my head.
