Page 19 of Off the Grid

“I am,” I say with a nod.

“Lucky girl. This is a pretty awesome place to move to.”

“Says the native.”

“No. Says the person who moved here myself.”

“Same difference. Accent is all the same.”

“But it’s not. You’ll soon find that out.”

“I’m sure I will.” I tilt my head. “Why here though?”

“I’m manifesting something.”

“Right now it seems you’re manifesting how to get a woman back to your flat.”

“Is it working?”

The look I give him in response—shoulders sagging, eyes looking up from beneath my brows, lips pursed in chagrin—tells him all he needs to know. No.

He twists his lips and fights his grin. It only serves to make him even cuter as those storm-cloud gray eyes of his light with humor. “And your love life? You said they’re over there planning it?” I nod. “Do you want them to be?”

I sigh. “God, no. Who knows where I’ll end up, being forced to do some ludicrous, whimsical something with a guy named Guy or Rocky or something like that.”

“So much to unpack in that statement.” He laughs. “Ludicrous whimsical? Is that even a thing?”

“It is,” I say with a definitive nod to back up my words.

“I’m assuming that’s in reference to something one would do on a date—an activity, a place—two straws, one milkshake kind of thing and not something else.”

“Correct. A date. Not something else.” I roll my eyes. Leave it to a guy to infer something sexual.

“You’re the one who said it. Not me.” He holds his hands up and chuckles. “Besides, what do you have against ludicrous, whimsical dates?”

“Nothing. They have a purpose—just not for me.”

“Then what exactly is it that you like to do on dates?”

I lift a lone brow and shrug and then immediately realize how that response will most definitely be interpreted. His grin widens. Yep. Nailed that one on the head.

“Is that so?” he murmurs.

“I didn’t mean it like that. I meant—”

“Shh.” He leans in so that I’m hit with the crisp, clean scent of his cologne. He smells incredible, but it’s his warm breath against my ear that has chills racing over my skin. The visceral reaction surprises me. “Don’t say that too loud. You’re in a room full of desperate men. For all you know, there might already be a line forming at your back.”

“Is there one?” I tease as he takes a step back but remains closer than he was originally. He’s tall with broad shoulders and muscles that bunch ever so slightly beneath the fabric of his shirt with each movement.

He makes a show of looking behind me before meeting my eyes. “Not yet. But I assure you it’s coming.”

“Ah, yes. The ever-constant line of men just waiting for me wherever I go.”

“There should be one.”

I tap my glass of wine against the neck of his lager. “Thanks for the compliment, but no thanks. Not interested.”

“No thanks regarding the line queueing for you or no thanks as in me?”