Pursued(6)

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."

"Uh, no, thanks." She moved to stand up, but he pressed her back into the seat.

"You haven't even heard what I was going to say."

"Yeah, well, when a guy says those words to a girl he hardly knows, it  usually ends with her chained in a basement somewhere while he maps out  patterns to make a dress from her skin."

"Wow!" He cracked up. "Suspicious much?"

"I've seen Silence of the Lambs. I know how these things work."

"It appears that you do. But, sadly, I have no basement. And no  handcuffs. And no deep-seated psychopathology, at least not that I know  of. Also, I don't have a clue how to sew. So, you're probably safe."

"I'll be the judge of that." She eyed him with mock suspicion. "So what exactly is this proposition of yours?"

"That I keep your phone number, even though you aren't exactly  overjoyed that I've got it. And I promise that I won't call you until  you call me first. Fair?"

"What if I never call you?"

"Then I'll be very sad, but I promise I won't bother you with harassing phone calls. Deal?"

She thought about it for a moment, thought about whether or not she  would ever want to talk to him again once this night was over. And  decided, what the hell. She might as well leave the option open. If she  didn't want to use it, well, then, he was giving her the perfect  opportunity to walk away, no harm, no foul.

"Deal," she told him.

"Excellent." He smiled, then reached a hand up to rub the back of his  neck. Involuntarily, her eyes were drawn to his very enticing six-pack  and the V-cut that peeked out of the top of his low-slung jeans. She  locked her jaw and, for the second time that night, tried not to drool.

She must not have been very successful, though, because his voice was  amused a few seconds later when he asked, "See something you like?"

"I like you." The words were out before she had a clue she was going to  say them. The second it registered that she'd actually spoken what  she'd only planned to think, she clapped her hand over her mouth in  horror.                       
       
           



       

She wanted to take them back, wanted to pretend she hadn't just screwed  up everything by letting her tongue-and her emotions-get away from her.  But it was too late. The words hung there in the air between them, like  a bomb waiting to go off.

He didn't look horrified by her admission, though. Didn't look as if he  was about to duck and cover in an effort to avoid the shrapnel from the  bomb she had just dropped. In fact, Nic looked absolutely delighted, as  though she'd given him a present … or the best orgasm of his life.

Which wasn't so far-fetched when she thought about it. He'd certainly done that for her, after all.

Before she could think of something-anything-to say that might work as  damage control, he closed the small distance between them. He turned her  stool around so that she was facing him, then moved closer still, until  he was nestled between the V of her spread legs.