When she has no other reason but to answer, she sits back and toys with her straw wrapper. “I feel like it’s partially my fault that he acts that way,” she admits, biting her bottom lip.
I want to rip it from her mouth and smooth my thumb over the spot her front teeth are digging into. “Why is that?”
She’s suddenly sheepish. “We went out once.”
I instantly scowl. “You went out withthatguy? He smells like he walked through the perfume section at Macy’s three times to avoid having to buy the scent.”
The laugh that bursts past her lips is unexpected and lightens her face. It’s a nice sound that almost makes me smile.
Almost.
“To be honest,” she tells me, “I only went out with him because money was tight and I didn’t have any food at the apartment. I got a meal, split it in half, and took my leftovers home for dinner the next night.”
I blink at her. “You date men for food?”
She makes a face. “You make it sound like I’m prostituting myself out. I don’t go home with them. I never do.”
I’m hardly the person to judge what one does in their sex life, but that doesn’t mean I like the idea. “Going out with him doesn’t earn him the right to talk to you that way at work. Have you told him you’re not interested?”
Her hesitation makes me want to pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Not in so many words,” she murmurs, her quiet voice making me shake my head. “I’ve told him it’s not a good idea that we go out on a second date. If I wanted to, I would have. It seems obvious enough to me that means no.”
Well, he’s a guy. An arrogant guy. They need far more basic terminology. Like ‘fuck off, I’m not interested’ for one. “You can mouth off to a professional athlete during your first meeting with one, but you can’t tell your coworker that you don’t want to date him?”
She frowns. “It isn’t that easy.”
My brows go up in doubt.
“I have to work with him,” she explains, pulling her drink toward her and tracing her finger along the condensation on the sides. “If I make him mad, I have to see him every day. If some cocky client comes in and mouths off to me, I can dish it back because they aren’t going to be around for long.”
All I do is stare at her pointedly. Because I’m right here. Across from her. Living and breathing flesh. “How’d that work out for you?” I quip.
She glares.
My grin returns.
“Is there a point to this meeting, Mr.—”
“You can call me Moskins,” I cut her off. “I hate the formal bullshit.”
Her head tilts inquisitively. “Not Thomas?”
“No.”
“Not Tommy?”
“Absolutely not.” That reply comes out harder than I intend.
Her eyes light up. “Okay then.”
Something tells me she’s going to use that name regardless of my hatred for it. “What do you go by? Winter? Certainly not Ms. Bronte.”
She shakes her head. “I’m not one for formality either. Ms. Bronte sounds so…old.” It’s a reminder to me of how young she really is.
Twenty-five, I tell myself.
“Most people call me Win or Winnie,” she finally says, lifting her shoulder. “I don’t have a preference.”
