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“I was being honest.”
“And I appreciate that. Truly. Saves time.” I smooth the front of my yellow cardigan. “You’re very handsome in a terrifying, probably bad-for-my-credit-score sort of way, and I enjoyed the drink. But I don’t do just sex.”
His eyebrows draw together like I’ve started speaking French.
“You don’t?”
“No.”
“Ever?”
“Not with men who announce it like terms and conditions.”
For a second, he looks offended.
Then amused.
Then suspicious again.
“You looking for a husband?”
“Good Lord, no.” I pick up my purse. “I’m looking for a cosmetology license, steady income, and maybe a life that doesn’t bore me into an early grave.”
“This place won’t bore you.”
“I’m beginning to see that.”
“Damn shame.”
I smile up at him. “You recover quick.”
His mouth curves slow and wicked. “I respect a no. Don’t mean I gotta like it.”
“Good.”
“Shame can still be fun.”
“I bet it can.” I take one step toward the door, then stop beside him. “But I like being wanted by men who can admit they want more than my body, even if they say it badly.”
His expression shifts.
I don’t know what nerve I hit, but I hit one.
“That ain’t me,” he says.
“I know.”
“You don’t know a damn thing about me.”
“I know you warned me.”
“That was for your benefit.”
“Then thank you.”
He stares at me like I’ve become a puzzle with a missing corner.
I like being underestimated. I like watching people decide I am soft because I smile, then stumble when softness doesn’t make me stupid.
