“You’re being a dick.”
“Dick is my default.”
“What’re you going to do if Cash’s friend traces the email to Angie?” She wouldn’t let it go.
He let out a breath. “It won’t be that cut-and-dried. But if the signs point to it being sent from her, I’ll find her.”
“Even if she doesn’t want you to?”
“I don’t believe that,” he said. “There’s more to it, more to the story.”
“Like she’s in trouble?”
He nodded and turned away, staring out the window. “Why are you really here?”
Rarely did women show up at his house after ten p.m. without sex in mind. If that’s why she’d come, he’d send her home. As much a temptation as she was, he’d proven he could restrain himself. The kiss had been a slip, a momentary lapse in judgment. He wouldn’t let it happen again.
Maybe when she fixed her life and was no longer his mother’s client they could meet up for a drink in Malibu. Tear up the sheets for a night and make a plan to do it again sometime. But not under these circumstances. And definitely not while she was living less than a mile away.
Sawyer liked his space and freedom too much to hook up with the girl next door.
“You have air-conditioning and I don’t.” She got up, moved to the living room, and made herself at home on his sofa.
“If you’re going to suck up the free air-conditioning you could’ve at least brought ice cream.”
“We ate it all. Now that I’ve got the machine, I’ll make you some tomorrow.”
He saved his work, shut down his laptop, and joined Gina on the sofa. She kicked off her boots and tucked her legs under her ass, showing more of those glorious legs of hers. He considered moving to the chair but stayed put, either to punish himself or to prove his mettle.
“What were you working on?” She nudged her head at his computer on the kitchen island.
“An article forForbesthat’s due next week.”
“What’s it about?”
“The fall of globalization.” Normally, he could’ve spent hours talking about his current work. The research, the interviews, the thesis of the story, things that bored his cousins to death. But not tonight.
Tonight, he was having trouble focusing on anything other than Gina stretched out on his couch in that tiny skirt, wondering what she had on for underwear.
“It sounds dull as dirt.”
“It’s my life’s work, so thanks.”
“It is not. I liked your story about that Malawi kid who studied library books so he could build an electrical windmill to bring water to his home.”
“You read that?” He’d written it years ago. Since then, the kid—now a man—had been the focus of a documentary and had penned an autobiography.
“Mm-hmm. You’re a good writer.”
He laughed because she sounded surprised. “Yeah, I get by.”
“If you could only be one, which would you pick: cowboy or writer?”
“Cowboy writer.” He grinned. “How ’bout you? Chef or celebrity?”
She took a long time to answer. “Celebrity.”
He’d expected her to imitate his cop-out answer with celebrity chef. But she’d surprised him. “Yeah?” He tilted his head sideways. Why was he not surprised?
