“I see.”
He looked smug, which irritated her. Sure, she’d judged the whole thing ridiculous when she’d first heard of it, but she had the right to. He had no right to judge anything she told him about her past.
She gave him an airy smile. “It was a huge success. The charity raised a ton of money.”
“I can’t imagine volunteering to be auctioned off in front of a bunch of rowdy women.” He squinted like he was trying to picture it.
Which made her imagine it too.
Unfortunately, the image came far too easily. A shiver ran through her. She crossed her arms to mask the traitorous pebbling of her nipples. “Brrr.”
“If you’re cold, I’ve got an extra pair of pajamas,” Marcus said, heading toward the dresser.
“I’m sure they’ll be far too large.” Her imagination, still in full swing, conjured a scenario where he offered her the top, kept the bottoms, and they shared a bed in some twisted forced-proximity romcom. She shook the thought away as he pulled something red from the drawer.
“They’re warm,” he said, shaking them out.
Frankie blinked at the one-piece thermal monstrosity. “Those are a hate crime. Against fashion. And passion.”
“They’re not sexy,” he admitted, lifting them to his nose. “But they’re clean. Smell like the general store shelves. They’re called long johns.”
“Charming.”
Hesmirked. “Suit yourself. But they’re warm.”
She glared at the pajamas. Huge. Hideous. Horribly unflattering. “Fine.” She snatched them. “But only because hypothermia clashes with my complexion. Hopefully, the cottage fix is minor and I can sleep there tomorrow night.”
“Agreed.” Marcus dragged a hand down his face. His stubbled, annoyingly attractive face. “One more thing. While we’re under the same roof, we might learn things about each other. If that happens, I say we keep those things private.”
How delightful. “Do you have secrets?” Of course he had secrets.
“Plenty.”
“Do they involve pajama choices or dead bodies?”
“Define bodies.”
She smirked. “For the sake of plausible deniability, I’m skipping that.”
They exchanged a beat of silence.
“Fine,” she said. “We agree to keep each other’s secrets.”
“Excellent. I won’t tell anyone you’re grumpy when you’re tired.”
She studied him. “Are you one of those men who expects women to filter their thoughts and serve them up with sprinkles?”
He raised a brow. “One of those men?”
“You know the type.” She gestured vaguely. “You frown when women use their outside voices for inside opinions.”
His nostrils twitched.
Bullseye.
“Sounds like you’ve had the misfortune of knowing the wrong kind of men,” he said.
“I’ve spent time with all kinds. None of them liked being called out. Especially by someone in heels and a bold lip.”
