Pursued. Tracy Wolff
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The Guest. And—”
“You suck!” she told him, breaking off a piece of pancake and throwing it at him. He caught it, of course. In his mouth. Without even trying. “Those are two of Albert Camus’s most famous works.”
“Are they?” he asked, his face a mask of complete and total innocence. “I had no idea.”
She studied him closely, looking for his tell. He was lying to her, obviously, but the fact that she couldn’t tell was odd. She could always tell—she prided herself on it. It’s what made her such a good investigative journalist. And such a lousy society columnist.
The fact that he didn’t seem to have a tell fascinated her. And made her very, very nervous all at the same time.
When she didn’t say anything else, he nodded at her untouched plate. “Eat your pancakes before they get cold.”
“Maybe I like cold pancakes.”
“Do you?”
“I don’t know. Do I?”
He didn’t answer. Instead he grabbed the bottle of maple syrup and drizzled it over the top of her pancakes. Then he cut into them and lifted a forkful to her mouth.
He waited patiently for a few seconds, but when she just looked at him instead of taking the proffered bite, he rolled his eyes. “My pancakes don’t taste good cold. Trust me.”
Trust him. The idea was so ludicrous that she nearly laughed out loud. Only the knowledge that he definitely wouldn’t get the joke kept her from making one wisecrack or another. But there was no way in hell she was ever going to trust him. Mr. Perfect. No, thank you. Been there, done that, still had the T-shirt as a not-so-pleasant memento.
Not that she was bitter or anything. Or sexist.
Because it wasn’t that she didn’t trust men. It was that she didn’t trust anybody. Not when life had taught her over and over and over again that she couldn’t count on anyone or anything. If she needed something, she could count on only herself to make it happen. Anyone else would just let her down.
Maybe it wasn’t a great philosophy, and maybe—just maybe—it was a touch nihilistic. But it was her philosophy. She’d lived by it most of her life, and while it hadn’t gotten her much—yet—it also hadn’t cost her much since she’d adopted it. And in her mind, that was a win.
And yet, even understanding all that, she—inexplicably—leaned forward and let Nic feed her the bite of pancake. She had no idea why she did it, but it certainly wasn’t because doing so made him look incredibly happy. Not at all. Not even a little bit.
That was her story, and like her philosophy, she was sticking to it.
Which was why it was so strange when, after she finished chewing, Nic simply handed her the fork and went back to what he was doing without so much as a backward glance. Was she the only one affected by this strange night of theirs?
It was a definite possibility, she told herself. He could totally be the kind of guy who picked up a different one-night stand at every party he went to. Which would mean that tonight—hot sex and cool banter and delicious pancakes—could be standard operating procedure for him. Which was fine, she told herself, despite the sinking feeling in her stomach. One-night stands weren’t SOP for her—far from it—but that was what she’d expected, what she’d wanted, when she’d come home with him. Deciding in the middle of it that she wanted something more wasn’t okay, no matter how much pleasure he gave her or how much she enjoyed sitting here, teasing him.
“So, favorite movie is off the table,” he said, after he poured another round of pancakes onto the griddle. “How about favorite song?”
She forked up another bite of pancakes under his watchful eye, took her time chewing it. “What’s with all the questions?” she asked after she finally swallowed it.
“What’s with all the evasive answers?” he countered.
“I asked you first.”
“Actually, if you think about it, I asked you first. About your favorite song. And I’m still waiting.”
“You are a persistent one,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him.
“I believe the word you’re looking for is charming.” He crossed to the fridge, took out a bottle of champagne and a quart of fresh-squeezed orange juice. “Debonair. Maybe even…sexy?”
He wiggled his brows at her then, and it took every ounce of concentration she had not to burst out laughing. “Sexy, hmm. Maybe. And here I was thinking humble.”
“Well, obviously. Being humble is what PR professionals the world over are known for.”
“Is that what you are?” she asked, intrigued by the rare glimpse into his real life. “A public relations guy?” It would explain the gorgeous house and even more gorgeous artisan decorating scheme.
He shrugged. “In a manner of speaking.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
He faked a surprised look as he slid a mimosa in front of her. “You don’t actually think you’re the only one who can dodge questions here, do you?”
She did laugh then. She couldn’t help it. He really was the most charming and interesting man she had met in a very long time. Maybe ever.
She reached for the champagne flute he’d put in front of her and took a long sip. As she did, Nic took advantage of her preoccupation and grabbed her smartphone off the counter.
“What are you doing?” she demanded as he started pressing keys.
“Programming my number into it, so you can call me whenever you want.”
“What makes you think I’m going to want to call you when tonight is over?”
He gave her what she guessed was his most unassuming look. “What makes you think you aren’t?”
“Are we seriously going to spend the rest of the night asking each other questions and never getting any answers?”
“I don’t know. Are we?”
She rolled her eyes in exasperation. But before she could say anything else, his phone started buzzing from where it sat next to the stove. He made no move to answer it.
“Aren’t you going to get that?” she asked, partly because the reporter in her wanted to know who was calling him at two-thirty in the morning and partly because he was standing just a little too close to her. They weren’t touching, but she could feel the heat emanating from his body, and it was making it impossible for her to think—and even more impossible for her to maintain the distance she was trying so desperately to cling to.
“It’s just me, calling from your phone. So now I’ve got your number, too.” He looked her in the eye when he said it and there was something in that look, something in his voice, that made her think he meant a lot more than the ten digits that made her phone ring.
Suddenly she was taking far too much effort not to squirm.
She didn’t like the feeling any more than she liked the vulnerability that came with the knowledge that he could see more of her than she wanted him to. And so she did what she always did in situations like these—she went on the offensive. “What if I hadn’t planned on giving you my number?”
He raised a brow. “You don’t want me to have it?”
“That’s not the point!”
“It’s exactly the point.”
“No, it—” She cut herself off. “You’re a piece of work, you know that?”
“I have been told that a time or two.” He paused, then said, “So I’ve got a proposition for you.”