She pressed her lips together, determined to focus.
But the end of the evening insisted on replaying itself.
The coach.The enclosed space.The wheels humming over cobblestone, the city oblivious.Nicholas watching her as if he were still listening to her speak.
His voice softer than it had any right to be.
What if I do mean them?
Bea’s stomach gave a small, traitorous swoop.
She set her pencil down with exaggerated care.
It was appalling.Absolutely appalling.
Not the man.The…feeling.
Because she had spent days convincing herself Nicholas was merely a complication to endure.An obstacle in her path.A handsome irritant with far too much confidence and far too much knowledge of how to tilt his mouth just so.
And then tonight he had done something unpardonable.
He had made her feel as if she mattered.
That was the sort of thing that sank its claws into a woman when she wasn’t looking.
Bea rubbed at her forehead, as if she could smudge the memory away like graphite.
It did not help.
Because right after making her feel like she mattered, Nicholas had gone and reminded her exactly what he was.
If you should care to try your skill at kissing again, do let me know…
Bea’s mouth tightened at the recollection of his drawl, his smile—pure cunning—like a man dangling a sweet in front of a child purely to watch her pretend she didn’t want it.
Her eyes narrowed.
Clever devil.
He had done it on purpose, hadn’t he?
He had been kind—genuinely kind—in the only way that would get past her armor.
And then, once her defenses were softened, he had slid the flirtation back in like a knife between her ribs.
Not cruelly.
Just…efficiently.
Bea’s cheeks warmed.
The worst part was that it had worked.
Not entirely.She had not thrown herself at him in the coach like some heroine in a lurid French novel.
But she had felt it.
That spark again.
