Brad Pit lookalike. Handsy. Stingy. Not worth the time.
To be avoided at all costs.
Harold. Looks like a hobo, tips like a king.
Smart to show the man a little attention.
I try not to think what the board would say about Remy, mustering a reply instead.
‘Whether I liked waitressing or not doesn’t matter.’ My heels click angrily against the highly polished floor. ‘Because I lost my job the night I decided to play nurse to you.’
Why did I move closer? I could’ve pointed my finger at him from the other side of the room. Maybe because I wouldn’t be standing this close to him, remembering how good he smells or noticing the tiny scar through his eyebrow. I don’t need to be this close unless I really intend on slapping him, which isn’t me at all. I don’t let men get under my skin, not the cute ones and definitely not the expensive and dangerous ones. All I know is none of this reality makes sense, yet I draw closer still. From slapping distance to the almost kissing kind.
‘I didn’t know,’ he answers, sounding almost sincere. Almost.
‘I might’ve been born at night, but it wasn’t last night.’
His eyes narrow, verdant green turning almost black. ‘You don’t believe me?’
‘Put yourself in my place. And you’d better believe I wouldn’t be standing here if I’d known from the start this was some kind of game.’
‘I play no game.’ Annoyance flickers to life in his expression, fading just as fast.
‘I find that hard to believe. But what do I know? I thought you only spoke French.’
‘An assumption.’ His lips quirk in something that isn’t quite a smile. ‘After all, you never asked.’
‘I was told by the hospital staff!’ I try to temper my response without much success. ‘Hospital staff you lied to.’
Ah! This is why I needed to be close—so I could poke him in the chest. His broad, firm chest that I know to be the colour of caramel and covered in dramatic swirls of ink.
In an echo of that first night, Remy catches my finger, pressing my hand to the centre of his chest, and covering it with his own. Ridiculously, I wonder if Alice knows what’s lying under his shirt. How warm his skin is. How beautiful he is.
‘You’ll remember I had suffered a blow to the head. I probably came around speaking French. It is, after all, my mother tongue.’
The mention of his tongue in that stupid accent of his makes my blush deepen.
And yes, it is a stupid accent.
Stupid sexy.
‘I did not lie. You, on the other hand . . .’
‘What?’
‘Shall we start with your name?’
‘You are unbelievable,’ I mutter, pushing my hand solidly against his chest as my cheeks begin to prickle with annoyance.
‘Unlike you, who even made the doctor blush.’
‘It was necessary at that point.’ I glower back at him, his own gaze dancing merrily in response.
‘It was a nice touch to the story,’ he purrs, ‘but what reason would you have to embellish? To lie? Then to go along with it afterwards?’
‘Wouldn’t you like to know.’ There’s no way I’m admitting I felt sorry for him being all alone in a foreign country. Or that I just wasn’t ready to let him go. Because that’s just hilarious, right? ‘You could’ve mentioned at a later point that you spoke English. You know, when you remembered,’ I retort snarkily.
‘Perhaps I was saving your blushes. Do you make it a habit of confessing your innermost thoughts to complete strangers?’
It’s clear he’s not saving my blushes right now as I open my mouth to respond, finding no words within reach.
‘What was it you said? You hadn’t had the pleasure for over a year? Was that true?’
Sweet mother-of-pearl, the man is as hot as he is annoying. And the fact that he is annoying is the reason I won’t mention that, up until just now, I was sure the sex we’d had back then would be enough to tide me over for another year.
Now, standing this close to him, I’m not so sure.
‘I’m not sure I mentioned sex,’ I reply evasively.
‘I’m pretty sure the only thing we spoke of was sex.’ His tone is even, but there’s a glint of provocation in his gaze.
I find myself inhaling audibly as he reaches out, drawing his forefinger lightly down my cheek. Heat blooms deep inside me at the touch.
‘That’s not fair.’ I’m not sure if I mean his words or his touch. I wet my lips, telling myself that my voice is suddenly husky because my throat is dry, and that it has nothing to do with thirsting for him. ‘You deliberately kept me in the dark.’
‘It was for your own good.’
‘No man gets to decide what’s right for me. If there’s one thing my mother taught me, it was that.’ Even if I came by that lesson watching her mistakes.