He huffs a low laugh. “I asked,are you hurt?”
His accent is Londoner, but somewhat muted, softer.
Where have I seen him?
I mentally flip through places I could’ve met him, scanning faces and voices—anything that might spark recognition. Without thinking, I brush my hair back from my shoulders and arch my back slightly—just enough to draw attention where I want it. The girls have never let me down.
His gaze follows the movement, trailing from my face and lingering where my body nearly brushes his chest.Even in the winter chill, I chose my outfit carefully. The neckline of my silk shirt dips beneath my open trench coat, just low enough to show my silver infinity necklace against bare skin. My skirt walks that perfect line between professional and sexy—a modest length but fitted enough to hint at the curves beneath.
The silence stretches and I realize I’ve been staring at him, completely lost in thought.
He tilts his head, studying me with an amused expression. “Right,” he says, his tone shifting to something I don’t quite like. “Perhaps I’m not being clear enough.”
He bends at the knees, bringing himself down to my eye level, as if I’m a confused child.
“I asked”—he pauses, his words dripping with condescension—“are you hurt?”
And just like that, the urge to knee him in the balls is overwhelming.
Jesus. Does he think I’m an idiot?
A trail of fire burns through my chest.
“No,” I say, my tone clipped.
“See?” He straightens to full height, an infuriating hint of humor dancing in his eyes. “Wasn’t that hard, was it?” The wink he gives me makes my eye twitch.
I scoff. “Excuse me?”
“You were just a bit slow on the uptake.”
He’s so patronizing, I want to kick him.
I recoil at his audacity and stumble straight back into the arms of whatever unfortunate soul is contributing to that god-awful body odor wafting through the carriage. Brilliant.
“I beg your pardon?” I demand, my voice rising.
His smirk widens. “You seemed a little… overwhelmed. I wasn’t sure if it was because you were hurt, couldn’t quite follow along, or maybe”—his eyes are pure mischief—“you were struck by my devastating good looks.”
Arrogant prick. If his head were any further up his arse, he could lick his nostrils clean.
“Did you just suggest I’m stupid?” My voice drops, more threatening than friendly. I ignore the remark about his good looks—because he’s absolutely right, the smug turd, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
He chuckles, clearly enjoying himself. “I said you were slow to respond, not that youareslow. There’s a difference.”
His gaze drops to my chest before snapping back up to meet my glare.
“Did you just look at my breasts?”
“Well…” He shrugs. “To be fair, you are shoving them in my direction.”
My mouth drops. The nerve of this man.
“I most certainly am not shoving my breasts into you.”
I absolutely am. Anyone with a set of eyes in their head can see exactly what I’m doing, but I’m not about to admit it. He knows I’m full of shite, but I won’t waver.
He raises a hand in mock surrender with an insufferable grin. “You’re right. My apologies. I’d step back to give you proper space, but there’s a pram lodged up my backside.”
