compete with that.”
Dear Lord, was he flirting with her? She didn’t have a lot of experience with non-sketchy flirting. Most of it came in the form of overbearing, threatening comments that had a greasy film coating the words. It always made her feel violent. Of course, her response was typically just to sit there with her hands tightly folded.
This was different. She wanted to respond to this, rather than punch him in the face. Which was stupid. They were just sharing a cab to her office. And after that she wouldn’t ever see him again. Much less make good on any of the flirting.
Which was just as well, because hadn’t she just been celebrating her freedom from male tyranny in her personal life?
Yes...yes, she had.
Though, a little male tyranny in bed might be nice....
No. No, no, no. Maybe other women did that sort of thing, but she did not. She wasn’t a one-night-stand girl. She wasn’t a sex-for-the-sake-of-sex sort of girl.
She didn’t have time for that kind of stuff, plus, the idea of kissing a stranger, much less getting naked with him, was just a big fat no-go for her. That was for other types of people. Frivolous, irresponsible people. Like her sister, for example, who had left morals, common sense, clothing and all else by the wayside. And Grace had seen where that led.
There would be none of that.
She looked back at Zack and a sizzle of electricity skipped over her skin, making her feel tingly. And...it was a lot like her skin crawling. Just with heat instead of disgust.
Was she really, honestly thinking about sex in connection with a stranger in a cab? There was something wrong with her. Long work hours and a lack of sleep, or something.
It had been six months since Mark moved out, and she honestly hadn’t missed him—or his body—much. The split had been as gentle and amicable as the entirety of the relationship.
They’d sort of drifted into a relationship, then back out. And the best thing about drifting out of the relationship was that she hadn’t felt obligated to help him move out. Unlike when she’d been trying to impress him.
Lifting giant boxes with her spindly T. rex arms was pretty low on her list of things to do.
As was sex with a stranger. Lower. Lower than box-lifting. Which was low.
“No, nor should you expect to,” she said. “We’ve only just met, while I’ve had a deep, involved relationship with my work inbox since 2005.”
“That’s longer than a lot of things.”
“Longer than most marriages.”
“Hell yeah. Less painful, too.”
“Well, that all depends.”
“On?” he asked.
“On which client I’m dealing with. And who one is married to.”
“Fair point. How close are we to your office?”
“Five minutes,” she said.
“Give me some financial advice.”
She arched a brow. “For free?”
“We’ll trade. I’ll give you a quick taste of my services, too.”
“Oh...please tell me you aren’t really a stripper going to a theme party.”
His dark brows shot up. “I think I’m flattered that you consider it a possibility.”
“Don’t be. I’ve been in the company of male strippers.” At a bachelorette party she’d basically fled. She’d spent the evening in the bathroom tapping out desperate emails on her phone. And she’d later been called a prude. But whatever. She could not handle random naked guys shaking it in her face. “Some of them are pretty...worse for wear.”
“Well, you are a surprise. Now where’s my consultation.”
“Pay off your mortgage before retirement. Never get involved in a land war in Asia. Your turn.”
He reached into shirt pocket and took out a pen and a little note card. She arched her brow and watched as he started scratching the pen over the surface, keeping it turned away from her so she couldn’t see.
His teeth closed over his lower lip, the expression of concentration sending a shock of lightning straight through her. And for just one moment she allowed herself to think, with uninhibited enthusiasm, that he was one fine specimen of a man.
Not the kind of man she would ever go for. He wasn’t clean-cut and clad in a suit. He didn’t have glasses and a reedy frame, which seemed to be her type, if two lovers was an indication of type.
He was as far from that type as you could get. He had those untrendy jeans—blue Wranglers—a plain button-up shirt and he was built like a house. Broad and hard-looking. Like his muscles had muscles.
Also, he had that rough-looking ghost of a beard on his face. Like he was just too darn manly to shave or something.
“Here you go,” he said, hanging her the card, his fingers brushing hers, a spark passing from his body to hers. He smiled, like he’d felt it, too, and it made the blood in her veins turn to warm honey.
Oh...
She looked down at the card and an unexpected laugh broke through her lips. He’d drawn a fox. All sketchy lines, in black ink, sitting in the middle of a street, tall buildings behind him.
“This is your professional offering?” she asked, arching a brow.
“Ouch. I didn’t know you were an art critic.”
“Maybe I missed my calling.”
“Maybe. Though, I think most critics have a little bit of a meaner look about them.”
“I don’t look mean?” she asked, forcing her eyebrows together, feeling her forehead crinkle. She was risking fine lines for this guy, what the eff was wrong with her?
He held out his hand and planted his thumb between her brows, smoothing out her forehead. “Not so mean.”
She should be annoyed that he’d touched her. He didn’t know her. What right did he have to touch her?
“I...”
His gaze dropped to her mouth and all the words got completely sucked out of her head. Every word she knew in English and Mandarin. And the little bit of high school Spanish she remembered, too.
All with his eyes. Those were some very powerful eyes.
And he started leaning in. Oh...no. What was she going to do? This man that she didn’t even know was about to press his mouth to hers, and she wanted him to. Oh...oh...shoot.
The cab pulled up to the curb and stopped.
“My stop,” she said, jerking back from
