No fake charm offensive.
Just that big body planted in front of me and those steady eyes saying he’s serious.
Infuriating.
I exhale slowly.
“You are a terrible idea.”
His grin flashes like sunlight off a helmet.
“Absolutely.”
I point at him.
“That is not persuasive.”
“It’s honest.”
There’s that word again.
Honest.
The last few days have been disgusting with honesty.
Maybe that’s why I don’t immediately run.
I shift my bag higher on my shoulder and give him my most skeptical pageant-queen death stare.
“I’m not saying yes.”
“Yet.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
I narrow my eyes harder.
He starts walking backward, still facing me, still grinning like the overgrown menace he is.
“Think about it, Texas.”
I should let him go.
Instead I call after him, “If I say yes, you are never calling me baby again.”
He keeps walking.
“Deal.”
A beat.
Then, over his shoulder:
“Sweetheart.”
I actually laugh.
