“When?”
“At the market. You had this look on your face, like you were happy.”
“I was.”
“But you’re not happy now,” he muses, cocking his head to one side.
“Why are you so shit about replying to my messages?” I ask.
He purses his lips, momentarily sheepish. “You can bring the contract over on Sunday. I’m going to Les Saules that day too, if you want to come.”
“What time?”
“Eleven? But you’re not annoyed about the contract,” he says thoughtfully.
Two people walk past us. The opening we’re standing in is wide, but we’re still kind of in the way.
“I’m not annoyed at all,” I lie as I turn and put my back against the doorjamb.
He comes to stand right in front of me—close. He still has his hands in his pockets and his weight is on the balls of his feet as he looks down at me. His shoulders are slightly hunched, but they still have a nice square shape about them. He’s been squaring up to the world for a while now.
“The girl I was speaking to is Margot,” he says matter-of-factly. “Her boyfriend, François, is a graphic designer. He’s away this weekend but he’s back on Monday if you want me to put you in touch.”
“That…That would be great,” I say.
So he wasn’t chatting her up?
“You thought I wanted her.”
I shake my head and his lips quirk up. He glances in the direction of the bar where Jackson may or may not still be queueing and takes his left hand out of his pocket, placing it on the wall beside my head. My thoughts scatter as he meets my eyes again, leaning in even closer.
“You know I just had to let him think that he had a chance before I swept in and stole you away.”
“You’re so arrogant,” I breathe, but the rush I feel is addictive. I’m not at all sure he’s being serious, but my heart has taken off at a sprint.
He smirks and takes his other hand out of his pocket, reaching up.
“What are you doing?” I stare at him as he presses the tips of his forefinger and middle finger to the side of my neck, just below my jaw.
He meets my gaze, his expression steady. “Your breathing is shallow. I wondered if your pulse was racing.” He pauses. “It is.”
I shove his hand away, but he doesn’t back up.
“I make you nervous,” he states, his eyes sparking with interest.
“And?” I exhale shakily.
“So you admit it.”
I can’t look away. It’s as though he’s drugged me. He’s staring at my lips now, but I’m still glued to his gray-blue gaze.
“Does Jackson make you nervous?” he asks.
I swallow. “Not in the same way.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
