I pull open the fridge door and root around in there. “I’ve got two beers from last summer. If they kill you, I take no responsibility.”
“It’ll take more than an old beer to kill me, Jessa.”
I shrug and toss it to him. “Suit yourself.”
He catches it out of the air easily, twists off the cap with one huge hand, and pitches it right into the trash can across the room. It’s obnoxious how effortless his every motion is.
I take up a station across the island from him. The distance is good. It gives me a sense of security. And even though I know it’s completely false, I cling to it anyway.
Show a bully your fear and they’ll feast on it. My dad has never really been one for advice, so the little he does give, I remember. That one feels particularly applicable right now.
Anton takes a swig of the beer. I admire the sloping curve of his Adam’s apple. The man is devastatingly handsome. He looks out of place in my scrubby little kitchen, though.
“Nice place,” he says, looking around.
“Is that sarcasm?”
He laughs. “Do you not think it’s nice?”
“No,” I rush to correct. “I actually love this apartment. I’m just guessing it’s not what you’re used to.”
“It’s not,” he says. “But why would you care?”
“I don’t,” I snap.
So much for being smooth and confident. I turn around and grab myself a glass of water, mostly because I don’t want to be stuck staring at him while I fight off an embarrassed blush.
When I return to the counter opposite him, he eyes my hands with interest. I glance down at the bandages wrapped around two of my fingers.
“Tough day at work?” he asks.
“You could say I’ve been a little distracted lately.”
“Are you blaming me?”
“You,” I admit. “Dane. Myself. Mostly the last one. I seem to be making all the wrong choices.”
“Like stealing my phone,” he offers.
I give him a sweet smile. “That one wasn’t me.”
“Right. I forgot you were sticking with your story.”
“It’s easy to stick to when it’s the truth.”
We stare at each other. Of course, I’m the first one to blink. But I choose to blame his sinful gray eyes. You can’t look at them too long without damaging your own.
“How’s the beer?” I ask, looking away.
“Disgusting.”
I laugh. “Don’t blame me. That was Dane’s.”
Anton scowls. “How a man could have so little taste as to choose this piss and so much as to choose you is a baffling contradiction.”
“I’m not totally sure,” I muse, “but I’m pretty sure that’s a compliment?”
“It’s an acknowledgment that you dodged a bullet.”