And though she knew men liked the way she looked, she’d learned the hard way that she apparently had one-night stand written all over her instead of take home to Mom.
She was prickly, and she knew it. But she wished that, just once, someone would get it. That they would understand she wasn’t icy so much as careful. That she didn’t know how to show vulnerability or softness, not because she didn’t feel it, but because she’d spent the past twentysomething years being told that crying made you weak, feelings left you vulnerable, and the only person you could count on was yourself.
Taylor had hope that someone would see it someday—would understand her.
Today was not that day, and Nick Ballantine was not the man.
She lifted her chin and met his dark gaze head on. “I changed my mind, Mr. Ballantine. I don’t have to know you to decide whether or not I like you.”
“Verdict?”
She stepped forward and tapped a red nail against his chest twice. “Definitely. Not.”
ELEVEN MONTHS AGO
“Tay! Taylor Carr, get your spin-class-toned ass in here right now!”
Taylor paused in the process of trying to slink past the break room. If it had been anyone else, she might have been able to get away with pretending not to hear, but Brit would know better.
She backtracked until she stood in front of the break room.
There were a handful of people sitting in chairs or leaning on the counter, including the one person who’d made her avoid the room in the first place.
Taylor carefully avoided the sardonic gaze of Nick Ballantine, instead choosing to focus on the friendly faces of Brit and Penelope Pope, a tiny brunette and one-half of Oxford’s sportswriting duo.
“Taylor, you’ve got to try this,” Penelope said, sipping out of a cocktail glass nearly as large as her face. “Nick says it’s a Brandy Crusta, but I’m going to rename it magic.”
Taylor had quickly learned that impromptu, in-office happy hours were a thing at Oxford. Ordinarily she would have gotten behind this sort of workplace frivolity easily.
The trouble?
The workplace happy hours went hand in hand with the presence of Nick Ballantine, who Taylor had quickly learned worked as a bartender when he wasn’t freelancing for Oxford.
“Yes, let Nick make you something,” Brit said, waving in Nick’s direction as she sipped a clear beverage garnished with a wedge of lime. “He’s got this crazy skill for knowing exactly what drink each person will love.”
“By God, give the man a Nobel Prize,” Taylor muttered under her breath.
Nick, however, apparently heard her, because he narrowed his eyes, even as he used his foot to kick a chair out from under the table.
“Sit,” he ordered, gesturing with his chin.
Taylor glanced over her shoulder. “Did someone bring their dog into the office again?”
In response, Nick reached out and put a heavy hand on her shoulder, literally shoving her into the seat.
He grinned as she glared. “Now, what can I get for you, Carr?”
“Thought you were supposed to be some sort of cocktail miracle worker. Make me something.”
He scratched at his chin, surveying the bottles in front of him on the table. “Shit. Of all the days to forget the arsenic.”
“How about a lemon drop?” Hunter Cross suggested. The good-looking VP, Brit’s best guy friend, gave Taylor a wink. “Sweet alongside all that tart.”
Nick snorted, as though to say, I’ll believe it when I see it.
She ignored Nick but gave Hunter a look. “Watch it, Cross, or I’ll tell all the ladies just which pop star I heard you singing along with the other day.”
Hunter laughed and held up his hands in surrender. “You win. Give her a whiskey, Nick, along with a side of my balls.”
Nick nodded in acknowledgment but said nothing, his eyes flicking between Hunter and Taylor before returning to the drink.
She had an annoying urge to tell him that she and Hunter were just friends—that she liked the guy, but he didn’t make her lady parts so much as flicker.
Without a word, Nick began picking up bottles she didn’t recognize and combining ingredients.
Such had been the nature of their relationship in the month since that first unfortunate encounter. She didn’t see him often, maybe twice a week. But thus far all the run-ins between them had ended in either stony silence or bloodshed.
“So, Taylor. How’s Oxford treating you so far?”
This from Cole Sharpe, Penelope Pope’s other half, both at work and at home, if the rumors were correct.
“I love it,” she said, meaning it. She’d only been at the new job four weeks, but so far it was everything she’d hoped for. It kept her interest and was challenging. If she had anything at all to complain about, it’d be that the job was maybe a touch busier than she’d expected, due to a bunch of accounts landing all at once.
But Alex Cassidy was in the process of hiring another account exec to help shoulder some of Taylor’s load, so she could handle the long hours until then.
Taylor made small talk with the group, even as she kept an eye on Nick as he mixed the various ingredients into a cocktail shaker, then added a handful of ice from the freezer.
She was a little annoyed to realize that he had good hands. Even more annoyed to realize that her thoughts kept going in naughty directions as to where she wanted those hands.
Because, inconveniently, the more time she spent around the guy, the more she disliked him. And yet the more she disliked him, the more aware she was of him. Where he was, what he was doing. Whether or not he was looking at her.
Nick grabbed a grapefruit and added a fancy twist to the glass before unceremoniously setting it front of her. “Here.”
Taylor glanced sideways at Brit and said in a loud whisper, “Google antidotes for common poisons on your phone, just in case.”
Then she took a sip and let out a little oh of wonder.
She didn’t have to look at Nick to know he was gloating, but she glanced up anyway. Yup. Gloating.
He lifted his eyebrows, daring her to lie and say she didn’t like it.
“It’s good,” she admitted, taking another sip.
The beverage was the palest pink, and she’d been bracing for something either nauseously sugary or brutally sour. Instead it was light, fresh, and sweet, with just the slightest nip of bitter grapefruit at the end.
“Oh, it’s delicious,” Brit said, already having reached across the table to help herself to a sip. She passed the glass to Penelope. “What is it?”
Nick shrugged. “Just made it up. Haven’t thought of a name yet.”
“Well, you should. Oooh, name it after Taylor!” Penelope insisted. “You made it for her.”
Nick went to the sink to dump the ice. “It’s similar to a sidecar. Suppose we could go with Sidecarr. Two r’s.”
“What about Ice Princess?” Taylor muttered, her words more or less muffled by the drink, now that she had the glass back and was taking a sip.
She didn’t think anyone heard her, but Nick faltered on his way back to the table, his gaze slamming into hers.