“Do…you want them?” I offered.
He had the tomato-laden napkin sliding across the table away from me before I could fully finish the question. After setting his bag on the table, he threw one leg over the bench until he straddled it, facing me.
“Thanks,” he said, his voice muffled as he popped a tomato chunk into his mouth and spoke while he chewed. “Mmm. These are perfect. Nice and juicy.”
I guess the boy liked tomatoes. And had he just said juicy? He should always say words like juicy, just to rile a girl’s imagination towards all kinds if naughty thoughts. Not that I should be having naughty thoughts about a gigolo. Certainly not.
“Do you have any salt?” he asked, breaking into my naughty thoughts as he licked his fingers.
Salt? How was salt naughty? Though the finger-licking…oh, yeah, that was naughty.
“Uh…” I glanced around and picked up the condiment package my napkin and plastic fork had come in.
When I spotted a miniature container of salt and pepper left inside, I brightened. And hey, it suddenly struck me how naughty salt could be if it was sprinkled on his naked chest and then licked off his sculpted pecs, or out of his innie bellybutton, or away from his mysterious tattoo.
Clearing my throat, I fished the salt package free. “You’re in luck. I do.” I tossed it his way, trying not to mourn the loss of all the things I could do with that salt.
Hotness totally impressed me when he caught the packet with one hand. “Thanks. Again.”
I watched him sprinkle the tomatoes.
“What?” he asked when he caught me staring—and totally not thinking about salt. “Don’t you put salt on your tomatoes?”
Apparently I wouldn’t be putting salt on anything. “Seeing as I don’t even eat tomatoes, no. I was just…sorry.” I blushed hard, trying to forget what he had looked like in that towel last night. “I seem to have a slight staring problem today.”
His eyes sparkled as he chewed. “I noticed.” He didn’t seem to mind, though. He looked amused by my staring problem.
I wrinkled my nose to make a face, my sneaky way of showing him I wasn’t affected by his playful charm.
But he merely grinned. “Not only do you eat rabbit food, but I swear you must be one.”
I paused chewing. “Huh?”
“That’s the second time you’ve wrinkled your nose at me. Total bunny move.”
Oh, crap. He’d noticed my one bad habit. Yes, I just have one. Hush.
Wait! He’d noticed my nose-wrinkling habit and was counting how many times I did it? That was…whoa. That was the sign of an interested male right there.
But no way could Mason Lowe be interested in me. He was a freaking gigolo. Gigolos didn’t bother themselves with insignificant, nose-wrinkling, lame college girls.
Did they?
Feeling as if I was being sucked into something bigger than I could control, I glanced away from Mason, reminding myself there was still life around us. We were not the only two people left on the planet, sitting at that table, discussing nose-wrinkling habits. Away from this moment, he did things I could never condone. I needed to distance myself from any guy who lived such an intolerable lifestyle.
Jeremy had taught me that lesson, and I would never forget it.
When I looked away, I caught sight of one of my professors strolling by, carrying her briefcase as if she was on her way to teach a class. Needing a diversion away from the captivating guy eating with me, I lifted my hand and waved.
Big mistake.
CHAPTER SIX
“Hey, Dr. Janison,” I called as I flagged her down with my hand. “Good morning. Those are some kick-ass shoes.”
Dr. Janison was my favorite professor at Waterford, and not just because she knew a damn fine Jimmy Choo when she saw one. I loved her teaching style too. She knew how to make Early British Literature interesting when I was not a fan of that particular period in the least.
She gave me a vague nod. “Good morning,” she said in that polite, distant way that told me she didn’t know I was one of her students. Then she glanced at her pumps. “And thank you.”
I was opening my mouth to explain which class of hers I attended when she glanced toward Mason and instantly paled.
Face blanched of all color, she skipped a step back as if she was about to take flight in her four-inch Jimmys. “Mr. Lowe,” she nearly whispered, sounding terrified as she gaped at him with wide eyes.
He didn’t make eye contact, merely mumbled, “Dr. Janison.”
Realizing the professor had probably heard rumor of his reputation—and didn’t approve—I felt suddenly protective.
Gah, just because he was a gigolo didn’t mean he had the plague.