His eyes narrow infinitesimally, as though he’s trying to pick me apart, piece by piece. Bless him. If only he knew what a waste of time that would be—not to mention energy. Why try to understand someone you’re only going to know for a few hours?
‘Sorry to disappoint you then, but I’m not a carpenter.’
‘Oh, I don’t think you’ll be a disappointment.’
He’s quiet, his eyes scanning my face, and then he shakes his head, a laugh I could best describe as rueful tipping from his lips. ‘I’m flattered.’
‘I have a place around the corner.’ It’s one of the reasons I come to this bar. Sure, it’s ‘the’ spot to be right now, so it’s also great for networking, but nothing trumps convenience. My work life is hectic enough—when it comes to my private life—what some might call ‘social’ life—I want ease of use.
Another laugh, this one a deep rumble. Now, almost as if against his will, he places a hand on the curve of my hip, his thumb sliding across my side so a shiver bolts down my spine.
It’s such a small touch, but it feels amazing.
‘Is there some kind of rush I’m not aware of?’
I consult the wristwatch I always wear—one of the few items of Mom’s I still have. It’s after ten.
‘Haven’t you heard? I lose my magic pumpkin carriage at midnight.’
‘Ah. Leaving me with only a glass slipper to find you again?’
‘I’m not that kind of Cinderella. There’s no “finding me” afterwards.’
‘So you disappear into thin air by midnight?’
‘Pretty much.’
He considers this a moment then lifts a finger to my shoulder, watching its progress as he traces a line down my arm towards my wrist, then my hand. He laces his fingers through mine, frowning a little as he looks down at our interlocked hands.
‘Let’s talk a bit.’
I pull a face. ‘Talk’s overrated.’
Another laugh and I’m forced to consider why I’m still standing there. I thought he was watching me, I thought he wanted what I want. ‘Look, Earl...’
‘Barrett Byron-Moore,’ he supplies, and I’m not disappointed. Frankly, that’s every bit as British as I would have expected. ‘Earl of Ashwyn.’
‘Well, Barrett Byron-Moore, Earl of Ashwyn.’ My gut pulls as I say the double-barrelled name, liking the feel of it in my mouth. ‘I must have read you wrong.’
‘Oh?’
‘Mmm.’ I press a finger to the button at his throat, flicking it a little, my eyes not dropping from his face. ‘I thought you were looking at me like you wanted a bit of...fun. But if you’re one of those guys, then I won’t waste either of our time.’
He squeezes my hand. ‘What’s “those” guys?’
‘You know, the romance guy.’
‘Romance?’ Another laugh. They fall so easily from his mouth, beautiful rich sounds of natural amusement, and I briefly envy him that light-heartedness. ‘Because I want to have a conversation with you? When did the bar for romance drop so low?’
‘You know what I mean.’ I shake my head impatiently.
?
??I’m afraid I don’t.’
‘Then let me spell it out for you.’ I lean closer, so my mouth brushes his ear. ‘I want to get laid. That’s why I’m here. I don’t really care who you are, or what you do for a living. I care that you’re good in bed. Are you?’
He lifts his other hand to my chin, using his thumb and forefinger to push it upwards so our eyes lock and I’m trapped in the force of his inquisitive stare. I’m uncomfortable; I don’t like it. I feel like he’s seeing more than I ever share and I hate that. With great care, I push a bored expression into place and straighten, pulling away from him.