Probably a knuckle. Came from the general vicinity of his hands.
I don’t bother looking to see if he’s clenching them.
The fact that he’s breathing heavily is confirmation enough that he’s irritated too.
“I get you,” he finally says.
I lift my brows at him.
Another knuckle pops.
He breaks eye contact with me to look around. “Giselle?”
“What?” comes a response from much closer than I expected.
“Get lost.”
“I don’t take orders from you.”
So this is what a truly frustrated Davis Remington looks like.
Flaring nostrils.
Flat lips.
Angry eyes.
It’s hot.
No.
No.
Angry men aren’t hot. They’re asshole little babies who need to learn to control their tempers.
Except I’m starting to wonder if that’s what Davis does all the time.
I’ve never encountered anyone quite like him before. Someone whose facial expressions don’t give anything away until he’s in his natural element, and even then, you wonder if he’s only letting you see what he wants to let you see.
Someone who always seems loose-limbed and relaxed, butnotrelaxed at the same time.
Like, alert-relaxed. Ready-relaxed.
Stop it, Sloane.
Men don’t get the benefit of the doubt from me anymore.
Especially men with closely guarded secrets that they dangle like carrots to get what they want.
Carrots like orgasms.
I shake my head and step around him while Peggy meows louder. “I’m getting my things, and I’m leaving.”
If I can’t use my own car tonight, I can borrow Tillie Jean’s or Annika’s.
I’ll head into the city. Get a hotel room as far away as I can from wherever Nigel’s working. Be anonymous for the weekend.
Georgia, Grady’s former extra baker at Crow’s Nest, moved to the city to live with one of Cooper’s teammates last year. I could hang out with her. I miss her.
