“You’re late.”
Chapter 2
Matt
“I’m sorry?”
My gaze slices up from the slender hand and perfectly manicured nails to find fierce blue eyes on mine. Typical man that I am, I take a quick but thorough inventory of the serious—and seriously pretty—woman currently accosting me. She’s tiny and angry looking, like a bantam rooster. Striking like one too. Her hair is dark, glossy, and expertly styled. Jade-colored silk skims generous curves, her lips are painted plum, and her cheeks are highlighted by a subtle but shimmery hint. Sure, she’s a tiny but pretty package. Though she’s not happy about ... something.
“We agreed to meet at seven, and even that was pushing it.”
Pretty. Feisty. And confused.
My answer is a startled cough as she grabs my wrist and turns in the direction of the door, her wrap dress flaring to reveal a flash of toned, tan leg. Though her fingers and thumb don’t meet, she’s got some grip on her as she tries to tug me along.Triesbeing the operative word.
She makes a noise of frustration as her attention swings abruptly back. Something flickers in her expression, and I get thesense she changes her response a split second before the words leave her mouth.
“Glad to see the suit turned out okay.” Her tone is almost begrudging as her gaze flicks over me. “The cuff links are a nice touch.”
“Thanks?” I think?
“Tiffany knockoffs?”
“Graff, actually.” And not knockoffs, thank you very much.
Her gaze lifts from the white gold knot, and as our eyes meet, something electric slides down my spine. It feels like recognition, not that we’ve met before and not that I have time to ponder the effect as she flicks the cuff link with her nail.
“Just don’t expect me to cough up for them. I don’t care if you did pick ’em up cheap on Canal Street.”
“They were a gift,” I find myself answering. As though I need to defend myself.
“Whatever.”
I feel oddly bereft as she turns away again. Bereft and bewildered and wondering if I should put my free hand over my watch—it’s worth more than my cuff links—but she’s dressed too expensively to be a thief or scammer. And too tastefully to be touting for business in a dive bar, if you know what I mean.
“Comeon, I don’t have all night!” She tugs again, harder this time.
I catch the bartender watching our exchange. He looks more entertained than worried for my safety. I give a rueful shrug as though this sort of shit happens to me all the time.
“Listen, love,” I say, ducking my head and keeping my voice low and soft. Kind, I suppose, though she doesn’t look like she’s escaped from the funny farm. “I think you’re mistaking me for someone else.”Thinkmy arse, but it costs nothing to be polite.
“Is that an Irish accent?” Her lip curls in distaste, and it would seem discretion is not in her wheelhouse, given the lack of modulation in her tone. But at least she lets go of my wrist. Like it disgusts her.
“What of it?” My response wavers with amusement. I’d love to know why we’re having this conversation and why this tiny, angry woman is trying to kidnap me from a pub. And so much for Fin’s claim as to the knicker-dropping quality of my accent.
To give Fin his due, I’ve generally found women in the US to be more receptive when I open my mouth. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve heard “Oh, you’re Irish? That’s so cool! I have a little Irish in me too.”And as the old joke goes, they’re often keen to have a little more in them before the end of the night.
“You’re supposed to be Spanish,” the tiny bantam accuses, angrily tapping her beaded clutch against her thigh. “Why the hell put it in your bio if you’re not?”
Well now, that’s a coincidence, because I am Spanish. And Irish. Or a bit of a mutt, given I have one parent of each. But there’s no need to say any of this. Not when she’s obviously confused me for someone she’s swiped right on. I’m not one for the dating apps, myself.
“Like I said, you’ve confused me—”
“Don’t think you can back out now. Or screw any more money out of me.”
“Money?” My brows jump almost to my hairline. There isn’t usually an exchange of funds on a dating app. Unless it’s some kind of fetish one, maybe? She is a tiny, bossy thing, and though that’s kind of hot, I’ve no intention of spending the night having spiked heels applied to my ball sack.Even if she has paid for the privilege.
“I already paid for the suit. And your cab fare.” She pierces me with the kind of look that might make a lesser man—or a less amused one—wither. “I knew I should’ve gone the professional route.”
