Page 44 of Bottles & Blades

“It’s still going in.”

Her lips press flat, her eyes flash again. Then she sighs and I know I’ve won. “Fine.”

“Good.”

She wrinkles her nose. “So what you’re telling me is thatthis”—she tosses her hand in the direction of the guys in the open doorway, toolboxes at their feet, drills in their hands—“is why we didn’t have time for you to kiss me properly?”

I tug at the end of her ponytail, miraculously intact despite that scorching hot kiss. “You’re saying you didn’t like what we just did?”

Red cheeks, eyes gone soft and warm…hopefully like other parts of her.

“You know I did,” she whispers. “I just…why are they really here, Jean-Mich— Jean-Mi?”

I stroke my knuckles along her jaw. “I told you—to make sure you’re safe, buttercup.”

“How’d you know what time my class was?”

Yeah, I don’t think telling her what really happened—that my security chief, who also works for her employer, has been spying on her—is going to go over well for me or for Pascal. “Come to dinner with me,” I say instead.

Emotion flickering across her face, and I brace, wondering if she’ll call me on my obvious diversion.

To my surprise—or maybenotto it—she doesn’t.

“I can’t,” she murmurs, regret traipsing across her pretty face. “I’m working after school and I won’t be back till around ten.”

“And now I’m wondering whenyousleep, buttercup.”

More emotion across that pretty face. “No early classes for me tomorrow. Something I’m guessing doesn’t apply to you because I bet there are plenty of early meetings on your schedule for the week.”

“When you say work…” Yeah, I’m leading her to information I already know, thanks to Pascal. But although she’s told me she nannies, she hasn’t mentioned for whom, so I need her to tell me.

Her face softens. “I nanny for Brit Plantain and Stefan Barie. They’re?—”

“I know who they are, baby.”

“Right,” she whispers. “You’re all hockey bigshots.”

I chuckle. “They are,” I say. “I’m just the guy in the suit.”

Her eyes trail down my front, and I know she’s seeing my wrinkled button down, is likely thinking back to my dirty clothes yesterday at the grocery store, my jeans and tee last night.

“I wear them,” I tease. “Just not around you, apparently.”

She smiles.

I touch her cheek again, because I can’t seem tonottouch her. “If you come to lunch with me tomorrow”—and not breakfast because she needs to get some freaking rest—“you’ll see me in one.”

Her kissable lips part on a shaky exhale. “Are you…” Her gaze slides to the side, the rest of her question left unsaid.

“Am I what, buttercup?”

She nibbles at the corner of her mouth. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Surprised brown eyes hit mine. “And I can’t say that I understand it either. But”—I crouch a little, catching her stare when she starts to look away again—“I don’t want it to end. The question is?—”

The drill goes and we both jerk, my eyes going to the door.

“What’s the question?” she asks, her fingers finding my arm, drawing my focus.

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