The Player and the Pixie(37)

The impulse to stand from my seat and toss her over my shoulder—so we could get started immediately—was strong. Strong, sudden, and completely out of character.

I nodded tightly, trying not to smile too widely. “Good.”

“Okay.”

“Well, then . . .”

She glanced at me once more, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. She lifted an index finger and jabbed me in my chest. “But this is between us, Sean. Do you understand? No one—and I mean no one—is ever to hear about it. If you tell anyone I’ll put your balls in a blender.”

Her phrasing choked a laugh out of me, but I quickly capitulated. “Yes. Of course.” I hadn’t thought through the particulars any further than the next week, but I’d agree to just about anything at this point.

She issued me one more searching glare, then stood abruptly. Her chair scraped, drawing the attention of the entire table.

Lucy looked around at our tablemates, twisting her fingers, then announced a little too loudly, “I have to go pack.”

She left. I watched her go. And I grinned.

There was something inextricably enticing about the dichotomy of her. For a softly spoken fairy princess with a rainbow mane, she had a remarkably tart mouth.

When I realized I was staring after her like a fool, and grinning at nothing specifically, I promptly stopped. I cleared my throat, replacing the smile with a frown, and searching my surroundings to ensure I hadn’t been caught.

I stiffened when my eyes connected with Broderick’s. We were alone at the table, the women having left without my realizing. He was observing me. His usually, as far as I knew, impassive features were etched with the barest hint of a smirk.

I’d been caught.

“You have something to say?” I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms. The chair protested, groaning under my weight.

“No.”

My frowned deepened. He was an odd sort. And he definitely wasn’t a lamb.

“Then do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“Depends on the question.” Broderick, still smirking, sipped his coffee.

“Would you consider it racist for me to call you a Mocha Frappuccino?”

Broderick coughed his surprise. Coffee sprayed on the table and he covered his mouth with a napkin, his eyes widening as he glared at me.

I waited for him to collect himself, offering no assistance.

“You must have taken Lucy at her word,” he rasped, wiping his mouth.

“About what?”

“That I’m a lamb.”

“Does she call you that often?”

“Often enough.”

I narrowed my eyes on him. “You’re no lamb. You’re a black wolf in black sheep’s clothing.”

“And you’re a white sheep.”

“In white wolf’s clothing?”

“No. Just a plain, everyday white sheep.”

My frown intensified into a scowl. “You think I’m so ordinary?”

“Ordinary?” He shrugged, as though considering the word, then added, “Average is the word I’d use.”

“Really?” I drawled, his assessment extraordinarily irritating for some unknown reason. I questioned sarcastically, “What makes me average? Is it my height?”

“It’s because you think you want to be average.” He lifted his eyebrows, indicating to my brain. “Wanting to be average makes you average.”

I stared at him for a beat. “I think I want to be average?”

“Yes,” he said, blowing on his coffee, and taking another sip. Disturbed steam traveled upward, disappearing into the atmosphere above his eyebrows.

“Lucy attempts to psychoanalyze me as well.” I rolled my eyes away from him, though I recognized he wasn’t trying to insult me. His words held no malice. “Is that what you two do all day? Analyze each other?”

Broderick wasn’t . . . well, he wasn’t at all apish. Nor was he mean. He was quiet—like a lamb, yes—but also clever. He was surprising.

“I was in the Navy. We don’t analyze people. We label them, easier that way, more efficient. Everyone has a role, it’s defined for them so they can fill it.”

“And what is Lucy’s role?” I asked, humoring him.

I was not at all curious about his response.

And I was definitely not impressed or uncomfortable with his succinct assessment of what I wanted.

“She’s not average.”

Despite myself, I fought a smile. “You certainly have a way with words.”

“I know.” Broderick’s features rearranged themselves, settling back into impassive neutrality. “Everything out of my mouth is goddamn poetry.”

I surrendered to the smile and fought a laugh. “Loveliness, the incarnation of beauty in spoken form.”