‘It is funny,’ I protest, ignoring how the brush of his gaze is like a million tiny fires breaking out against my skin.
‘Heather.’ This time, he says my name like a chastisement. ‘I know you can see it, too.’
Oh, God, this is much harder than I’d anticipated.
Jammy used to have this saying; take care not to be hoisted by one’s own petard. As a girl, I’d thought a petard was a tunic thing a knave might wear back in the day, and that her advice was to watch where I was walking lest I be “hoisted” by catching it on a tree branch or something. But that particular piece of clothing was a tabard, not a petard. It made sense later as I was never going to be seen dead in a tabard.Ballet wear and boots was another matter.A petard is actually a bomb, and Jammy’s advice was a warning against the fallibility of youthful choices. I may no longer be a teenager, but I still get the sense that this plan of mine could well be a bomb that’s about to go off. And I can’t afford to lose my head.
‘You’re wrong.’ All kinds of wrong that’s oh, so very tempting. ‘I was actually just thinking there can be nothing sexy about being peeled out of underwear made from the same fabric as a trampoline. Underwear that’s currently threatening to cut off my circulation.’ With a pained glance, I squirm to support my imaginary discomfort. ‘And when I say peeled, I actually mean yanked, heaved, and pulled. Basically the process of how I got them on.’
‘You’re not wearing underwear like that.’ He still looks amused as he glances away, his eyes scanning the room.
‘Shows what you know. Even skinny girls have bits they want to strap in. Bits that jiggle when they really shouldn’t. Lumps and bumps that they want to hide. You know how the saying goes; little pickers wear big knickers.’
‘Despite being a sugar fiend, I think you’ll find you are in fact slender, not skinny.’
‘And you’re being kind. Should I be suspicious?’
With his champagne glass poised at his lips and his face wearing the usual mixture of insouciance and mild amusement, I prepare myself for another quip.
‘You know, your brand of self-deprecation must be exhausting. You’re neither ginger nor skinny, and you know that half the women in this room would kill to look like you right now, so give it up.’
I grit my teeth, preventing both the spike of tears and a stinging reply. I’m not fishing for compliments because I dislike receiving compliments. Mostly, I feel they aren’t true, and people are just trying to be nice. And it’s not as though I’ve had lots of practice receiving accolades from the opposite sex. It’s usually my friends or my parents who say nice things. The people who love me and want to lift me up. I’ve never had a man wax lyrical about my hair or my skin, and not once have I been told I’m beautiful by a man not related to me by blood. But let’s face it, that’s not what Archer said anyway.
I take a deep swallow of my champagne, my gaze sliding unseeingly over the faces on the other side of the room.
‘Besides,’ he says, pulling my attention but not my gaze. ‘I know you’re not wearing big knickers because I’ve already seen your underwear today.’
I turn to him sharply, but he isn’t finished making me uncomfortable yet.
‘Or should I say I saw the brevity of your briefs. Don’t looks so shocked; I zipped you up, remember? If you were wearing the type of knickers you claim to be, they’d have been halfway up your back. As it was, there was very little to be seen. A tiny hint of blue lace, maybe?’
‘You arenota gentleman.’ My retort comes with no little chagrin—the bastard just set me up.
‘And thank God for that.’ His glass suddenly clinks against mine. ‘You didn’t think I really was, did you?’
‘I’m not stupid.’
‘Agreed. What’s the opposite of gentleman, do you think?’
‘You,’ I answer sickly sweet. ‘Weren’t you listening?’
‘No, I mean what’s the proper name for it? C’mon on, there must be one.’
‘Knob head?’
‘I don’t think that’s it even if it isn’t very complimentary.’
I think the word is cad. Maybe rogue or scoundrel. But I don’t think Archer can be described as any of those. He’s far too, dare I say it, kind. Maybe he wouldn’t like to hear me say so. Or maybe he would? I haven’t paid him a lot of compliments—just lots of insults—so it’s kind of hard to tell. Yes, he’s annoying and a bit cocky and a little full of himself, but he’s also incredibly astute, sharp witted, and God, he makes me laugh. He puts me at ease, and that isn’t easy. In fact, the only thing wrong with him is that, by his own admission, he’s a bit of a slut. A ladies’ man. A tart with a heart?
Is Archer Powell the opposite of a gentleman?
Or is he exactly that with a couple of flaws?
11
Archer
‘How wild are your wild mushrooms?’
