“Shut up. You don’t know shit.”
His nostrils flare, and I smile because he knows I can read him.
“Whatever you say,” I offer as he grows more frustrated.
“Why are you so worked up? When you spoke to Jameson on Monday, did he say he wanted to ask me out again or something?”
He shrugs, and his shit-eating grin returns. He’s masking himself from me, putting on an act. “He might have mentioned it.”
“Wait, what?” This information blindsides me because I was joking. “You talked about me?”
The thought of that confuses me.
“Maybe you should call him back and talk to him yourself. I’m not your middleman.” He does the shoo motion with his hand, giving me that rude attitude of his.
“Why do you do that?” I ask.
He glares at me. “Enlighten me, babe.”
“Give me up.” My heart rate increases.
The room suddenly feels hot, or maybe it’s the fact that I said something truthful.
He laughs. “Oh, please don’t flatter yourself. If I wanted you, I’d have you. You and I both know that.”
Our eye contact doesn’t break.
“I’m going to call bullshit on that,” I tell him, knowing he’s trying to hurt me, but it’s not working. I see through it. I happily go back to sketching because it’s easier than looking at him. “We need to focus.”
“I am.”
“Nah. You’re interrogating me.”
“I’m making conversation.” He shifts in the chair, the leather creaking under his weight. “Isn’t that what you tell everyone who sits for one of these portraits. Why didn’t I get the artist’s confidentiality promise?”
I glance up at him. “Because I already keep all of our interactions to myself.”
His eyes drop to my legs again. “Ah, that makes me feel like your dirty little secret, Ken Doll.”
The words hit me low in my stomach, and I force myself not to react. “I know what you’re doing, and it won’t work.”
“Just being myself,” he says. “And that happens to be your kryptonite.”
“Now who’s flattering themselves?” I ask nonchalantly, even though he’s right.
I actually love taming assholes. It used to be my specialty. That’s why they call me The Destroyer.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and the position puts him closer to me than I expected.
“Look me in the eye and tell me I’m not haunting the hallways of your mind.”
My heart rate continues to increase. “So poetic. And, no, you’re not. You wish though.”
“Liar.”
“Usually, your accusations are an admission of truth. How’s the fantasy of me treating you?” I ask.
“Hate to break it to you, but there is no fantasy version of you rummaging around up there. I’m sorry.” He sarcastically places his hand over his heart. “You’re not my type.”
