I shrug, liking the way she punches back. "I said what I said."
She's shaking her head, but she can't hide the faint smile tugging at her mouth. "So we're like a team, huh?"
"Just call us Bonnie and Clyde."
She blows out a breath, lips vibrating. "You can do better than that."
"Gumshoe and Swordsman?" The nicknames aren't particularly romantic, but they're flirtatious. I'll admit to liking it.
Her lips curl into that full smile she was fighting. "Give me some time. I'll come up with a better nickname for us."
"I don't know." I tap the steering wheel. "I'm growing fond of Gumshoe and Swordsman."
She regards me with a quizzical look. As if she can't figure me out. Welcome to the club, Mallory. I can't figure me out either. What is it about this woman that makes me like her so much? I know what it is, but at the same time, I can't figure it out.
"What do you have going on tomorrow?" she asks.
I almost tell her she can do better than that, but rein it in and respond instead. "I have my second meeting with the olive oil sommelier." Her eyebrows raise dubiously. "That's a thing?"
Laughter from me. "I promise it's a thing."
She shrugs like she doesn't believe me. "If you say so."
"I know so." I reach over, give her a little pinch on the arm. She squeals and bats me away.
"Tell me about fencing," she says, digging into that box of pastries I picked up this morning at Sweet Nothings.
"What about it?" I ask, plucking the corner off a strawberry pop tart. I swear I can never get enough of these things.
"It's not your typical sport. Tell me how you got involved."
"It was after my dad died. I needed something to do. Anything, really. I needed to feel like?—"
"You were in control of something."
"Exactly."
Mallory takes another bite. "Pardon the interruption. Continue."
"I welcome all interruptions from you," I say, stealing another piece of Mallory's pastry. She tears off half, and hands it over. There's some construction starting, reducing the two-lane highway down to one for a half mile. We slow to a stop. I look over to say something else, but spot a speck of strawberry jam at the corner of Mallory's mouth.
All I want to do is reach for the back of her neck, pull her in close, kiss the jam off her mouth.
Would she be receptive? Allow it?
This isn't the time, or place, but I can't help the way my eyes linger there. Mallory would taste like the most decadent treat. I can tell.
She must see the way my eyes look at her mouth, because she reaches up, thumbing away the jam. "Tell a girl instead of staring at it." And then she sticks out her tongue at me.
And I laugh.
Funny, that's what this woman is.
The traffic lets up, and I ease off the brake.
"Keep talking," Mallory instructs.
"There happened to be a man in Olive Township who owned a gym, and he'd studied fencing. Ambrose was just becoming serious about football. We were only ten, but he had laser focus even then. So we started going to the gym."
