The tension in his face has gone. His lips have actually quirked into a smile.
Mood swing much?
“Yeah, I’ve heard of her.”
“Thank God. I was gonna have to push you out of my truck if you hadn’t.”
He laughs at that.
“So, do you have a surname, Nick? Or are you one of those special people who only has one name? Like Cher. Or Madonna.”
He chuckles again. “Slater.”
“Nick Slater,” I repeat. “Well, it’s cool to meet you, Nick Slater.”
I reach my hand over. He takes it and shakes it.
And I totally do not get any strange tingles in my hand at touching him.
Okay, I do.
What’s that all about?
I pull back and wrap my hand around the steering wheel.
“So, did you lose your shirt?” Or did someone rip it off your hot body? I thumb at his bare chest. The one I’ve been desperately trying—and failing—not to stare at since I laid eyes on him. “Or do you just have something against shirts as a whole?”
There’s a pause. I quickly look at him again. He’s watching me again. This time, there’s a smile in his eyes.
“I spilled coffee on it.”
“Ah, well, that’s gonna do it. I’d probably take my shirt off if I spilled coffee on it as well. To be fair, I’d also probably get charged with indecent exposure. You guys have it way too easy.”
I hear a chuckle from his side of the truck. I honestly don’t know if he’s laughing at me or with me.
Probably at me.
Can’t blame him. I do talk shit ninety-nine percent of the time.
We lull into silence.
I’m usually great with silences, but something about this guy has me sitting on all kinds of edges. I feel nervous. And not in the scared way.
More in the exhilarated, I want to rip his clothes off way.
Which is not good.
And causes verbal diarrhea to continue to pour from my mouth.
“Okay, so I know you don’t like The B-52s or Whitney. Do you like Pat Benatar?”
Pat is queen. I love her like no other.
His remaining hotness points exist on his answer.
“In the biblical sense?”
I snort out a laugh. “She was definitely a total babe in her day.” I nod. “But I did mean, musically.”