I choose to ignore the swipe. “Yep. I didn’t have many friends. Still don’t, actually.”
“Why’s that?”
“I moved a lot when I was little, and then I didn’t quite fit in when I moved to Nevada.”
Snorting, he shakes his head. There’s almost a smile on his face. “Desert living isn’t quite the same as cornfields?”
“It’s always been hard for me to make lasting connections for some reason, but I hope having a popular business in town will help with that.”
I can’t quite make it much more high level than that, but since he doesn’t want to give up anything personal, I won’t either. Not that I’m willing to getthatpersonal with a man I barely know.
Again, he just stands there. I want him to speak. His voice is so deep that I can feel it vibrate when we’re close enough, and I like it. A lot. I want to keep him talking.
“Will your girlfriend mind that I’m here?”
“I don’t have a girlfriend.”
I find that unbelievable. Who wouldn’t swoop this guy up? “Really?”
“Really. I don’t like people in my space.”
Well, insisting I stay at his house contradicts that statement. “A guy like you must have… needs. Oh, wait. You guys own a brothel, right? You can satisfy the craving without a commitment. Smart.”
It’s not smart. It’s sad, actually, but I want him to say something. Baiting him seems like the best option for that outcome right now.
“We don’t fuck the working girls.”
“That’s a really good business strategy. How do you—”
“Queenie manages the girls and isn’t off-limits. She knows what I need, and she respects my boundaries. I have particular tastes, and I don’t vary in what I like.”
He glares with annoyance, but it’s not new. It’s a common look with most people before I wear them down. He’s talking to shut me up, and now I’m going to know more than he planned to tell me.
We will be friends.
“I’m glad you have someone to give you what you need.”
“Do you want me to ask you about your sex life now?”
Smiling, I shrug. “Don’t have one. But that’s okay.”
His brow lifts. “It is?”
“I’m not one who has a lot of needs in that area. I enjoy conversation over sex.”
“Then you’ve never had good sex.”
He has no idea. “Yeah, probably.”
I know he wants to ask. I can see it in his eyes, but he won’t. And I wouldn’t answer even if he did. But I like that he’s contemplating how personal he wants to get tonight. Tit for tat.
The debate waging the war in his mind about whether or not to ask shows in the way he studies me, and I just take the time to watch him. Take in the sharpness of his jaw, his slightly crooked nose I assume has been broken once or twice, and muscles that make me wonder if he can lift me in the air and toss me around like pizza dough. He’s tall and imposing, but he doesn’t scare me.
“It’s time for bed, Yellow Crayon,” Tucker says rather than ask the question I know he’s dying to know.
“Yellow Crayon?”
That’s a new one. I’ve been called many things—most of them not very nice things—but not that. I’m not sure if the reaction should be flattered or insulted. It doesn’t sound terrible.
