“Well … no.”
She leans forward. Her dark hair falls across her shoulders and I want to sweep it back so I can see her face clearly again.
“Don’t tell me you’ve always had a woman do it because I might throw my shoe at you,” she says.
Her lips are pressed together in the sexiest pout and it takes everything I can muster to remember what we’re talking about and not about kissing the shit out of her.
“Actually,” I say, shoving off the table. I mosey across the building, cheered on by the buzzing machines. “I do have women do it for me.”
She sticks a finger in the air. “Ah-ha! I knew it.”
“Women I pay.” I grin. “That quite like their jobs, I think.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh.”
Her lips work back and forth. “Then I should probably say I’m sorry.”
“For …” I goad.
For a split second, I don’t think she’s going to play along. I think she’s going to shrug, pull her leg to the floor, and go on about her business. Just as I open my mouth to prod her along, she speaks.
“For … you know …” She tries to hide a smile. “Assuming a guy that looks like you would have a woman do his laundry. That wasn’t nice of me in retrospect.”
“No. It wasn’t. But let’s go back to the part where you said I was good-looking,” I say with a grin. “Care to elaborate?”
Her cheeks flush.
I head her way again and don’t stop until I’m in front of her. The air is scented with a citrusy aroma that flutters around me.
She sits back, trying to blow off the fact that my proximity is getting to her. It’s her eyes that give her away. Her pupils are dilated, the green darkening as I watch them.
“I didn’t say you were good-looking,” she replies.
I pretend to consider this. “Yeah, you kind of did.”
“Take it however you want.”
“Curious choice of words.”
Her lips break the line they’d been trying to hold. A smile stretches across her face, pulling mine up right along with it.
“I’m Boone Mason,” I say. “I’m not sure why I’m telling you that. But since you know my laundry status and I know you’re curious since you think I’m hot—”
“Wow. Okay. Jumping to conclusions a little there, don’t you think?”
I hold her gaze. She squirms in her seat, wanting to look away. But she doesn’t. She can’t.
“I don’t think so,” I tease.
I toss her a wink. Turning away, I head back toward my bag. Her eyes bore into my back as I walk. I adjust myself as discreetly as possible.
Of all the people I’ve met on this stupid trip to Illinois, this girl, whose name I’ve yet to acquire, is the most interesting. Learning how to do laundry is suddenly less irritating.
“So,” I say. “Want to teach me how to do laundry?”
“Can’t.”