He blinks, as if that’s the most exhausting sentence he’s heard all week.‘Not interested.’
‘In what, conversation or human interaction?’
‘In you,’ he says simply, reaching for a beer from the outdoor bar like we’re not still mid-scene.
I stare at him.‘Okay.Little blunt for someone who probably thinks eye contact is foreplay.’
He cracks the beer open with a signet ring on his hand.‘Don’t take it personally.City girls aren’t my type.’
My jaw ticks.‘You don’t even know me.’
He gives me a once-over – not rushed, just thorough enough tofeel insulting.‘I know enough.’He takes a slow sip, eyes glinting as if he’s enjoying himself.Which makes one of us.
‘Right.And what exactly do you know?’
‘You showed up in heels to a working farm.You probably drink champagne like it’s a personality trait.And you practically threw yourself at my feet.Bit full-on, don’t you think?’
‘Itripped,’ I correct.
‘On me.Physics is a bitch.’
‘You’re out here in jeans and an Akubra, butI’mthe cliché?’
He tilts his head, maddeningly calm.‘Difference is, mine’s practical.Yours is curated.You scream high heels, high maintenance, gone by Monday.’
I grab a glass of champagne from the bar behind me.‘Better than screaming “emotionally constipated farmhand who hasn’t touched a woman since his restraining order”.’
His mouth twitches.A real smile, maybe.Dangerous territory.
‘You done?’he asks.
‘Not even close.’
He leans in a fraction, all heat and arrogance and eucalyptus- scented aftershave.‘You’re not used to people saying no to you, are you?’
‘No,’ I say sweetly.‘Mostly because they don’t.And when they do, they don’t smell of diesel fuel and generational trauma.’
He actually laughs – low and sharp.‘You think this is flirting?’
‘I thoughtthis’ – I gesture between us – ‘was me being polite.But sure, let’s call it a cultural misunderstanding.’
He tips his beer in a lazy mock toast.‘To clear boundaries.’
I clink my glass against his.‘To good instincts.Mine clearly need work.’
We drink.We stare.The silence burns like the grass beneath us.
I should walk away.I should go find Ella and tell her this wedding guest is hostile and possibly cursed.
Instead, I say, ‘So … whatisyour type?’
He grins.‘Not you.’
It’s the meanest, hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me.
‘Jamie?’Abbey’s voice slices through the stand-off like a champagne cork to the temple.She’s behind me, glass in hand, smirk firmly in place.
Blue Eyes steps back, amusement still tugging at the corners of his mouth.‘You must be B2.’
