He snorts again, louder. “I don’t take steroids, Tabby. These muscles?” He makes a show of flexing his arms so his biceps pop out, big as boulders. “These babies are one hundred percent bonafide. I’m just genetically blessed.”
Ignoring her boyfriend, who’s studying a menu, the dishy blonde sitting in the booth across from us picks up her cell phone and discreetly takes a picture of Connor. When she notices me scowling at her, she blushes and looks away.
In a voice as sweet as syrup, Connor notes, “You’re pretty territorial for a woman who only wants to be a team of one, sweetheart.” He takes another swig of his whiskey, watching me over the rim of the glass.
“I just don’t like the way people look at you like you’re…meat.”
He sets his glass down, runs a finger thoughtfully around the rim, glances at the blonde and then back at me. “And by people you mean women. You don’t like the way women look at me.”
I pick up the shot of J?egermeister and drink the rest of it. It burns my throat, just like that nasty bit of truth I so stupidly blurted. Anyone who could develop an acquired taste for this putrescence deserves a gold medal.
Grimacing, I say, “Order me something better. Please. This can’t be the first and last taste of alcohol I’ll ever have. I’ll be scarred for life. Well, more scarred.”
Connor’s eyes sharpen when I say that last part, but he lets me off the hook for the moment and motions for the waitress. She arrives quickly and asks him what he’d like.
“You have Krug Clos d’Ambonnay, 1995?”
She blinks in surprise but quickly recovers. “Oh, uh—no. We unfortunately don’t carry that vintage, sir, but we have the 2007.”
“Excellent. Thank you.”
She realizes she’s been dismissed and hurries away. She stops to confer with a gentleman in a suit at the end of the long wooden bar. They both turn to look in our direction, and the suit smiles. I get the feeling they’re both happy with the order.
“I’ve read Krug is the champagne of true connoisseurs.”
Connor shrugs. “Judge for yourself. And while we wait, you can tell me more about this little territorial problem of yours…” A loaded pause. “Or about the dagger.”
Oh, goodie. Out of the frying pan and into the fire.
“How about a third option?”
Connor rests his elbows on the table, leans forward, and gazes intently into my eyes. “Sure. How ’bout this, Tabby. What’s your plan here? Why did you really agree to help me find S?ren?” When I open my mouth, he adds, “And don’t say it’s payback for the Bank of America thing, because that’s bullshit. You could’ve done that years ago. There’s something else.”
My heart starts to pound. I look away, hating how easy it is for him to see me. He sees me, no matter how high or thick the wall I build, and I don’t know what to do with that. I only know how to live behind walls. It’s only with him that I’ve ever felt…
Safe.
I feel safe with Connor.
Suddenly, I want to scream.
Swallowing hard, I look down at my hands. He says my name, but I hold up a finger.
“Give me a minute. I’m getting my shit together.”
I hear his impatient exhalation, hear all the other questions he wants to ask in it, but I’m concentrating hard on swallowing the swell of words rising fast on the back of my tongue, on tamping down the hot expansion inside my chest, the feeling of seismic shock, like the earth jumped ten feet sideways from one breath to the next.
You’re in deep, Tabby. Denial will only take you so far. You might as well just fucking admit you have serious feelings for this irritating, overbearing, completely incompatible sexalicious stud of a man, and get on with your life.
And maybe take another amazing roll in the hay with him before the gig’s up.
When I look up, Connor is staring with laser-like focus at me.
“I have something to say to you. When I’m done, I would appreciate it if you’d act like I didn’t say anything and not ask me any questions, because I’m not sure exactly what shape I’ll be in. Okay?”
Connor silently examines my face and then nods.