‘Tatty bit o’ string,’ he says, smiling widely.
‘What?’
‘‘Frayed knot. You know,afraid not.’
‘Oh my God, that was so bad,’ I say, dropping the toast to my plate. ‘Pun fail, Rory. And I’m staying with a friend. You’re like a dog with a hard-on, you know that?’ As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realise I’ve turned into a less eloquent version of Ivy.
‘While I’m certainly enjoying my breakfast, I wouldn’t say I’mthatenthusiastic.’
‘I meant a dog with a bone!’
‘Sure you did, but I still don’t know where you’re staying.’
‘With a friend.’ Mostly. Picking up my fork, I slice off the corner of potato scone, popping it into my mouth.
‘The blonde wi’ the rack or the drunk one?’ The corner of his mouth turns up, his expression turning a touch cynical. ‘Tell me it’s not the meat headed one.’
‘Meat headed?’
‘Aye, the one from the gym that has issues getting his hands in his trouser pockets because of the size of his biceps. He needs to knock off the juice.’
‘Juice? Oh, you mean steroids. Doubtful, Mac has always been big.’ Big, but nowhere as imposing as the man sitting across the table. Not satisfied with my answer, Rory raises one sardonic brow. ‘That’s like the kettle calling the pot—’
‘Grimy arse?’
‘Something like that.’
‘I like to stay in shape,’ he says. ‘I also like my dick to be accessible.’
‘What?’ I ask laughingly.
‘He looks like a cartoon. Is it him?’
‘Him? Oh, who I’m staying with?’ Rory doesn’t answer, though his expression is less than calm. ‘You know, if the wind changes, you’ll stay looking like that.’
‘You’d still be hot for me.’
‘Wow. You aresofull of yourself.’ I grasp my napkin, hiding my smile while ostensibly dabbing my mouth.
‘Aye.’ The way he watches me borders on carnivorous. ‘And you’re full of me, too, after last night. I like it.’
Sensation blooms and bursts between my legs. I drop my gaze back to my plate, murmuring, ‘I’m not sure how to answer that.’
‘You sayRory, the blondeorRory, the wee drunken brunette.’
Spinning. My head is spinning, his determination tying my tongue in knots.He likes me likes me. Oh, God, and I like him. More than I ought to, I know.
‘The brunette. Ivy.’ The words just spill. Like verbal soup. ‘Sister of the meathead. I mean Mac. She’s Mac’s sister. And my best friend.’
‘Got it,’ he says with a satisfied smirk.
‘Good.’ I exhale a massive breath, then picking up my fork, chase a couple bright orange beans around my plate.
‘Well, I think so.’
‘You do?’ My head snaps up, my gaze square on his.
‘Aye. You seemed awful pally back there in the gym.’
