A beat passed.
“No, b’y,” she said, her voice softer than before. “I’m just wondering if I open that door, if I’m actually going to see something wrong.”
“I—”
“Because you seem like the type of man who has ulterior motives.”
That irritation flared more. She’d seen right through me, of course. She’d be within her rights to walk right out. Hell, to run screaming.
But she wasn’t running. She didn't think I was a creep, though she should have, given the thoughts I kept thinking every time I looked at her.
Something else had brought her here. The challenge, maybe. Or curiosity. It certainly wasn’t the money, she’d made that clear. That was refreshing as fuck, if not a little debilitating. I’d gotten so used to greasing hinges with money, it was a workout to have to use my fucking brain again to get things done.But it didn't matter why she'd come. I told my brain to relax and just be glad she was here.
I took a step toward her. She stiffened. I held my hands up. Then I pointed my finger at an upper cabinet to indicate I was heading for that and not her.
She softened just slightly.
For the briefest moment, some dark and twisted part of me wondered what she’d do if I bypassed the cabinet. If Ididgo up to her, taking her by those ample hips, and tell her I did have another reason to call her over here. She’d take in a breath, her pupils broadening, and I’d take that as my sign to knock a knee between her legs. To lift a hand to her jaw and a thumb to that thick bottom lip. Then I’d growl at her like a fucking animal.You’re staying here now.
Winona was waiting. And none of that was what I needed her for. But my dick didn’t get the memo. It stiffened in the jeans I’d thrown on.
I turned to the cabinet. Not the lower one, but a top one next to her head. I jerked the door open, pulling down the Laphroaig. It wasn’t my best bottle, but I didn’t need the bestright now. I’d drink kerosene if I thought it might help me get my head on straight.
I held the whiskey up in her direction.
Winona glowered at me.
I shrugged. “Your loss.”
My heart beat a rhythm against my ribs like a marching band’s leading drummer. The cork wouldn’t give. Frustrated, I brought it to my teeth, jerking the bottle down so the top released with a loud pop. I was deeply tempted to bring the bottle straight to my lips, but I reached into another cupboard for a glass, like a fucking gentleman. I set it on the counter with a clink, spitting the top into the sink basin.
If Winona was disgusted by me, she didn’t show it now. She was prepared for me this time.
Once more, she folded her arms. “You never answered my question.” Her tone was level, like she was used to dealing with assholes. I'm sure she was, in her field. “Is there really a problem?”
I poured the amber liquid into the glass. It glugged musically. “Yes, Ms. Chalmers, there’s a problem.” I took a long swig, stalling. I could sense her irritation. It felt like the warm glow of a fire. It matched the heat of the liquor rolling down my throat. It set off a spark inside of me.
And a realization.
That was it.I needed to get us mad. That’s what worked last time. I was pissed, she was pissed, and magic happened on the page. She didn’t have to stick around. She just had to get mad at me.
The concept made me feel like an asshole. Mostly because I knew I’d go through with it.
“Mr. Harring?—”
“Newfoundland,” I said.
Rudely interrupting was a good start, though it felt like acid on my tongue.
“What?”
I picked up the bottle again. “‘You got me drove. Lodge it down.’ You’re from Newfoundland, right?”
She said nothing, but her cheeks flushed. I was right. It was either that or Ireland, but she didn’t otherwise have an accent. “I looked it up,” I said. “Right after you left last time. After I put some clothes on.”
Her cheeks flushed deeper. Was it working? Or was it the mention of me undressed?
You cocky fuck.Apparently, I couldn’t scrape my mind out of the gutter tonight.
