“Pay the bill,” I say.
AJ does not move for half a second.
Then he grins.
Not smug.
Not polite.
Hot.
Absolutely, catastrophically hot.
“Yes, Watch Manager.”
I stand before that can do any more damage than it already has.
18
Chapter 17
AJ
Pippa’s flat is upone narrow flight of stairs behind a blue door that does not open smoothly.
It sticks halfway.
Apparently the universe has looked at the two of us crossing the road from the bakery in absolute silence, charged with enough intent to power the whole village for a week, and decided what this moment really needs is a woman in steel-toe boots fighting with a temperamental lock while I stand two steps below her trying not to stare at her arse.
I fail.
Briefly.
Then I look at the wall, because I am still, against all available evidence, a man with manners.
“This door hates everyone,” she says, jiggling the key.
“Good. I was worried it was personal.”
“It might be. It has a type.”
“Journalists?”
“Men who look too pleased with themselves.”
She is above me, one hand on the key, the other braced against the doorframe, her dark green jumper riding just slightly at her hip where her jacket has shifted. Her hair is still a little flattened from the shift, her eyes are tired, and there is a faint flush high on her cheekbones from the cold outside.
She looks like a woman who has just made a decision and is now daring the world to make it awkward.
The world is doing its best.
“You look very smug,” she says.
“I look focused.”
“You look like a man trying to pretend he hasn’t just been looking at my arse.”
I open my mouth.
