Yet he’s making no move.
“This is a bad idea.”
I turn to leave, but as I reach the bottom of the porch steps, he says, “Wait.”
I stop, heart lurching into my throat, and look up at him.
His jaw has hardened, and he wears that guarded look that I know so well. The one that tells me he thinks I’m trouble. “If you’re thinking of hooking up with Lee Weston,” he says in a low voice. Hesitates. “I should warn you, he’s bad news.”
I laugh humorlessly. “Let me guess. He’s a playboy? Uses women for a quick fix, then tosses them aside? Doesn’t get attached?”
He frowns, like he’s surprised that I already know. And bothered, maybe, that I seem unbothered by it. “Something like that.”
“Do you know that’s the same thing people say about you?”
He takes a step toward me, his brow furling. “What? I don’t use women. I don’t toss them aside.”
“No? So, telling them to stay the hell away from you after you’ve spent the night with them isn’t your usual move?”
He’s silent for a moment. Then: “I never told you to stay away from me.”
“Oh, that’s right. You just ordered me to stay away from your family. Are they here right now? Should I leave before I poison them with my toxic presence?”
His chest rises and falls in a small sigh. “They’re not here. Layne and Kaylie moved into their cottage out back.”
I’m not sure why he’s telling me this.
I wrap my arms around myself, even though it’s not cold. “What about Tommy? Doesn’t he live here, too?”
“My grandpa lives in a fully contained suite on the back side of the house. Technically it’s attached, but he’d never wander in here uninvited. This is my house now, and he respects that.”
We stare at each other.
I don’t know what to think of this information, except that he seems to be telling me that we’re alone.
“Great,” I say lightly. “We wouldn’t want him to stumble upon you fraternizing with the enemy like this.”
“Sierra ...” He sighs again. But he says nothing more. Just my name, hanging in the air between us.
It feels like when he called me “beautiful” last night, then walked away. And when he stared at me tonight, across the bar, then went home.
It’s so, so frustrating.
I think I liked it better when I thought he actually hated me. At least that was clear.
“Are you trying to fuck with my head on purpose?” I ask him. “I know we’re rivals and all, but this is cruel.”
He looks confused now. “How am I being cruel?”
“You flirted with me at the bar. With that purple drink.”
He rubs his hands over his face.
But I don’t care if he’s uncomfortable. Or frustrated. Or all fucked-up over me.
Hedidflirt.
And I’m definitely all fucked-up over him.
