He nods as he looks around the room. "Did you get what you came for?"
I nod. “Aye. Just need to grab a few things out of my locker.” The lockers are on the exact opposite side of the room. I need to get him away from here.
He frowns and nods, holds his arm out to me, and my heart does a little skip in my chest. I reach out and wrap my fingers around him. I swallow hard, willing my imagination to ignore the warm feel of his skin, the latent strength, the way my body responds when we touch.
“I almost finished the book," he says with a smile that somehow doesn’t reach his eyes.
Uh oh.
I still feign nonchalance, but my heartbeat kicks up a notch.
"Oh, really? Any good?"
“Aye, bloody brilliant.” Heat floods my chest at the praise. I tell myself I’m not the author, that I may pen these books, but my alter ego is smart and witty and cheerful, nothing like the real me at all.
But I can’t help but be flattered by his praise.
He liked it.
“No way. Tate Cowen enjoyed a romance novel? What’s so good about it?”
He eyes me. “Thought you hated them. Why do you care?”
Someone gag me. Please.
I shrug, feigning a lot more nonchalance than I feel. “Don’t, really. Just curious is all. I mean, they’re romance novels, not the typical ones read by men. So I wanted to know what you like about it.”
“The story’s pretty gripping. The characterization is spot-on.” He snorts. “And oddly, it’s like reading a childhood memoir of mine.”
He doesn’t meet my eyes.
I look up at him sharply. “They’re romance novels, why on earth would you equate them with a childhood memoir?”
Smooth, Fran. Real smooth.
“I just mean that they remind me so much of my childhood, it feels like I’m there again.”
Is it my imagination, or is his voice… angry?
Why did I do this? Why?
My belly growls with hunger, and I feel a little dizzy again. I’m usually a pretty busy person with a really packed schedule, but it seems that even the few things we’ve done today have completely worn me out.
I need to throw him off the course, plant another seed. But something in the air between us crackles and sizzles, and my palms grow sweaty. I wipe them on my trousers.
“Well, glad you like them. Do you still think they’re written by someone you know?”
He sobers. “No question, lass.”
I frown. “You don’t think your sisters really would, do you?”
If it were one of them, they wouldn’t face the consequences that someone… like me would. Still, I feel shite for suggesting such a thing.
He shakes his head. “Not sure about anything right now.”
“Who else would it be?”
He scowls, as if really mulling it all over.
