I shrugged, and straightened my spine. “Spent a lot of time in Australia. My mind just went there.”
She rolled her eyes at me, unimpressed, before returning them to the page. “Charming.”
I smirked, unable to resist. “Coming from someone who uses seduction to kill, I’ll take it as a compliment.”
“Delusional too?” she retorted, not even bothering to look up.
I leaned back in my chair, still grinning. “Charming and delusional. That’s me.”
Emma shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself. “I’ll make sure to put it on your tombstone when someone finally takes you out.”
I chuckled, then raised my glass to her. “My guess is, you’ll be the one to do it.”
Her features softened just a touch as she sipped her Scotch. “If you’re lucky,” she murmured, eyes glinting with that same dangerous edge I’d come to appreciate.
“How would you go about it?” I asked, eager to keep the easy banter going.
"Black widows use venom, Caden. You should know that," she said, keeping her tone dry but it was tinged with amusement.
I smiled as I swirled the last bit of Scotch in my glass. "Oh, I know. Luckily, I’ve always had a thing for poisonous women."
“I imagine sleeping with you would turn them suicidal rather than deadly,” she muttered.
I barked out a laugh before shifting my voice to a lower pitch. “Oh, I think you’d be very surprised what sleeping with me turnswomen into.” I leaned in closer, lowering my voice even more. “Care to find out?”
Her head finally snapped up. “Ask me again and watch me poison you for real.”
I grinned, the death threat strangely warming my insides. "You’re oddly fixated on my untimely demise."
Emma went still for a moment, tension running through her before it eased. "Call it a survival mechanism.”
I kept my grin in place. "At least promise me a dramatic sendoff."
Her lips twitched, almost as if against her will. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure your eulogy includes the words ‘deserved it’ at least three times.”
I noticed the shift in her demeanor and couldn’t help teasing her. “Miss Thompson, is that a smile?”
She quickly pressed her lips into a firm line, trying to regain control. “No, just a facial spasm. I get those when people annoy me.”
I laughed, leaning forward a bit more. "Then I’m sure I’ll be seeing a lot more of those."
She shot me a playful glare, sticking her tongue out before turning back to her book, the corners of her mouth twitching with amusement.
I chuckled, feeling a warmth spread through me—a slow, subtle thing I had come to expect whenever she was near. Something disarming. Something dangerous. Something I wanted more of it.
When she finally left for the night, her scent lingered—delicate pear with the faintest trace of lilies.
And damn it all to hell—I liked it.
The next night she retaliated.
The fire muttered to itself in the background, throwing a flickering glow around the room like it had nothing better to do. Shadows stretched and twisted across the walls, playing dramatic little games over the endless rows of bookshelves.
The air carried the familiar mix of old paper, leather, and Scotch—basically, the scent of questionable life choices and misplaced intellectualism.
Emma was in her usual spot, curled up in the chesterfield like a cat that had claimed the furniture as her birthright. Legs tucked, eyes glued to her book, completely ignoring the world. Her glass of Scotch sat untouched on the side table.
The quiet between us wasn’t uncomfortable—quite the opposite even.
