she represented?
For a moment, only a moment, Dorothea allowed herself to ponder what things would be like if Daniel were proud of her. They’d go to dinner, but not in the city. No, he would surprise her with a picnic in the middle of Strawberry Valley. Then they would go hiking. Oh! Bowling. They would trash talk, of course, and decide the winner would receive a bone-melting kiss...in the location of his or her choosing.
“One date,” he said. “Give me a chance.”
“No, thanks,” she croaked. “I’m not interested.” The words resounded inside her head, shaming her. Lies were Jazz’s thing, not hers. “Fine. I’m interested, but what I want isn’t what I need. I won’t date you.”
He listened to her without reaction, seeming to ponder her words. “Tell me why.”
“Why?” she parroted like a fool.
“Are you afraid I’ll hurt you?”
“I know you’ll hurt me.” As soon as he finished with her, her hard-won self-esteem—if she had any left—would take yet another beating.
His gaze hardened, pinning her in place. “If we discuss the terms of our relationship up front, the chances of either of us getting hurt diminish significantly.”
Please! As if she would ever be able to hurt him. “We wouldn’t have a relationship, not really. And I can already guess your terms. One, we’ll sleep together and never speak again. Two, see term number one.” And oh, wow. The bitterness in her tone astounded her. She had once demanded he have a one-night stand with her, zero strings. Now she hated him for offering the same to her?
When had she become such a hypocrite?
“We’ll sleep together once...twice...a dozen times.” He hiked a shoulder in a shrug. “The number is negotiable as long as we both accept where the relationship—because yes, we’d have one—is headed. But why must we never speak again?”
“A dozen times?” She struggled to breathe. And she understood where the “relationship” would be headed, all right. Nowhere.
“Or more,” he said. “Like I told you, I’m flexible. I’m also waiting for an answer to my question. Why must we never speak after we have sex? I happen to like speaking with you.”
He did?
Thou shalt compliment when merited.
Red alert! Danger, danger.
She cleared her throat. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, Daniel, but I don’t like speaking with you.” Truth. Conversations with him tended to end disastrously for her.
Again he gave no reaction, as if he’d expected resistance and had come prepared to forge ahead regardless. “I’m happy to do all the talking, then.” He held out his arms, the last sane man in the universe. “See how easy I am to get along with?”
Double dang him! He was too charming for his own good. No, he was too charming for her good.
He tapped two fingers against the stubble on his chin. “I have a brilliant idea. Which happens to be the only kind of idea I ever have. Why don’t we focus on getting to know each other today, and speak about sex tomorrow?”
I’m not delighted by his persistence. And his ego is absolutely, positively not charming.
She grabbed the glass cleaner and a new rag. See Dorothea fake nonchalance. “No way, no how.”
“All right, then, we’ll talk about sex today.”
She nearly choked on her tongue as she faced the mirror. Her reflection had enormous green eyes and bright pink cheeks. Soft, open lips, ready to be kissed...
Spray, spray, spray. Wipe, wipe, wipe.
“I don’t know about you,” he said, the husky note back in his voice, “but I’m imagining you seated on that counter...naked.”
This. This was the tone he would use in bed. The one he would use to whisper into a woman’s ear, driving her wild with raw, primitive passion.
“Your legs are spread, and I’m—”
“Fine!” she blurted out. “You can get to know me today. Okay? All right?” Anything to shut him up. If he continued to weave such an intoxicating picture, her resistance would shatter. She would end up in his arms, the consequences an afterthought. “What would you like to know?”
His eyelids were heavy, almost drowsy. “For starters, what’s your favorite color?”
Spray, spray. Wipe, wipe. Could he see how fervently she trembled? “I like pink in the morning, blue in the afternoon and gold in the evening.”
The corners of his lips quirked up, as if a smile was attempting to sneak past his usual frown. “That’s pretty specific. I would have guessed red, the color of your fingernails.”
“Well, my color favorites change according to the position of the sun. And the nail colors aren’t based on what I like but on my mood.”
One of his brows winged up. “Please tell me red is for passion.”
She fought a smile of her own. “Nope. Red is anger. I don’t actually have a color for—” She pressed her lips together. Crap! She’d basically admitted passion had no identifier and therefore no place in her life.
He could have teased her. Or come on to her, flirting more obviously. Instead, he quieted, different emotions whirling behind his eyes. Intrigue. Desire. Confusion.
“What do yellow and orange mean?” he finally asked. “Actually, tell me all the colors.”
Why not? “Yellow is hopeful, orange nervousness. Green is irritated, pink happy. Blue is sad, purple determined.” She stopped, pressed her lips together. Sharing these details made her feel exposed. Wanting the spotlight taken off herself, she said, “What’s your favorite color?”
“Yellow. No matter the time of day.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s bright? Mellow?”
“You don’t know?” To her, yellow represented the rise of the sun. The start of a new day. A clean slate.
“Never really thought about why. I like what I like.” He crossed his arms, his biceps straining the tee. “How’d you get the nickname Dottie? Those adorable freckles?”
“Adorable? As if! But yes, that’s exactly why, and I hate it. I’ve always hated it.”
“I think it’s endearing. More than that, Dorothea doesn’t fit you. It’s the name of a ninety-year-old crazy cat lady. So why have you stuck with it?”
“Never really thought about why,” she said, mimicking him. “I like what I like.”
His grin bloomed full force, causing her hormones to sing and dance with bliss. “Well, I’m a rebel, so I’m gonna mix things up and call you...Thea. Yeah. Thea. Short and incredibly
