He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really?” he drawled, the amusement in his voice unmistakable. “Tell me, how do men navigate a minefield such as yourself?”
Did he find joy in annoying me? I hated that. It made me want to laugh for some reason, and that was such an odd reaction to something that frustrated me so.
“Don’t patronize me,” I snapped, trying to sound annoyed for what felt like the millionth time tonight. Inside, however, a tangled mess of emotions was running through me.
This was exactly why I shouldn’t drink gin.
“I’m not patronizing you,” he asserted with a confidence that was both irritating and strangely attractive. “I’m asking.” His voice was softer now. I didn’t know it could sound any smoother. “For my self-preservation, of course.”
I scoffed. “Trying would be a waste of your time. You’ve always gotten on my nerves.”
“Have I?”
“Yes, you have,” I admitted.
My gaze drifted down to his full lips. I wondered if he’d be a good kisser. He had to be—the man likely had women every weekend, since he looked like a walkingCalvin Kleinad.
Why was I even thinking about something like that? I couldn’t kiss anyone. I wasn’t sure whether the curse was real or not.
Then I realized that wasn’t a bad idea. I needed to kiss someone I didn’t care about—someone I could detach myself from easily. Someone who wouldn’t leave an aching void when the spell inevitably wore off.
Someone like Max.
It was a stupid idea—one that bordered on self-destructive. Max wouldn’t even consider it. My father had sworn a blood oath that made it so any man of his who laid a finger on me would face dire consequences.
If it wasn’t the curse that would kill Max, it would be my father.
Still, the thought lingered.
“Anyway, this conversation has been lovely, but I’ve got to go.”
The word “go” was a flimsy excuse, a desperate attempt to escape the suffocating air that seemed to follow Max.
In truth, I could have stayed wallowing in the intoxicating haze of alcohol and my silly, unspoken desires. But I was most certainly too drunk to deal with him, and more importantly, I was too drunk to deal with myself.
I lifted my hand to his chest. His muscles tensed beneath my touch.
He was warm—impossibly warm. His gaze fell to where my hand rested against him. He was surprised. His heartbeat pounded against his rib cage. It was strong ...fast.
He put on one hell of a front.
“Go where?” he asked. “Back to Jackson? He’s not your type.”
This was the second time he’d brought up Jackson.
“No? And you know what my type is?” I challenged, raising an eyebrow in amusement.
We were back to our argumentative tendencies.
“Men who are sad, broken, and in need of fixing.” He said this with his eyes narrowed.
I blinked, surprised by his answer. It was a low blow even for him. He wasn’t entirely wrong, but he wasn’t exactly right either.
The truth, which was far messier, would hit a nerve of his. I couldn’t say it out loud. It slipped out anyway. “I would say you’re wrong,” I began, “but Ididhave a thing for you once.”
“Stop flirting with me,” he said with a swallow.
I frowned. “But it’s so fun.”
