Page 4 of Conception
He must see the panic in my eyes, because he quickly retreats. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to scare you.” He holds his hand up in some sort of salute. “Promise. Scout’s honor. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Which, it looks like you are, so I’m gonna get going before you start screaming bloody murder and I get arrested on my first day in this Podunk town.”
I roll my eyes. “Considering there are about two cops in this town and they’re both probably currently sitting at Mae’s, drinking coffee, and eating pie, I doubt you have anything to worry about.”
His lips quirk up into a half smile. I try not to notice how incredibly handsome he is, with features far more masculine than my ex. From a squared jawline that’s growing stubble to sharp cheekbonesI’mjealous of. His patrician nose, intense and chiseled, is like something carved during Roman times and meant to be on display in extravagant museums. Since he took in my lips, I don’t hesitate to do the same to him. They remind me of that fairy tale Mom loved telling me. Not too big or full. Not too small or thin. Butjustright. Plump enough for me to suck the bottom one, not large enough to swallow my face.
Down, girl, I tell myself.
I’ve been practically celibate for nearly a year now, and it’s starting to show. Considering that this is the first man to show me attention in that amount of time, I can’t blame myself.
What gets me the most? What has me wanting to lean in closer? His eyes. They’re the color of creamy milk chocolate, deep pools any woman could get lost in. When another flash of lightning lights up the sky, the illumination changes them to a lighter shade of honey.
My stomach rumbles along with another roll of thunder.
Hell, no wonder I’m likening this man to the most delectable foods.
I clear my throat and focus, realizing that he’s caught my thorough perusal. “I think Leatherface would much prefer yours than mine,” I tell him, immediately regretting the words.
“I think you should stop talking about a mute serial butcher who likes to wear his victims’ skins. You’re kind of giving me the creeps.”
My mouth drops open. “Excuse me! You’re the one who stalked me then broke into my car! That’s what serial killers do. Not Southerngentlemen,” I say, tossing the term back in his face, because from where I’m sitting, he’s anything but.
“Didn’t stalk—more like escorted home.”
“Can it be an escort if you’re behind me and I don’t even know about it?”
He waves me off. “And I didn’t break into your car. You left it unlocked. You know, if you’re well versed in horror movies, you should know it’s always the pretty ones who die first.”
“The pretty, dumb ones,” I counter.
“Touché. Dumb like leaving the passenger’s-side door unlocked in a terrible storm out by a lake in the middle of bumfuck nowhere?”
“I suppose it’s my turn to say touché. Now, weren’t you saying something about leaving just a moment ago?” I’m too tired yet too wound up to continue this conversation. All I want right now is a hot bath—which, I guess in this stormy weather, is out of the question. Starting my vacation with getting electrocuted is not on my list of to-do things. So I’ll settle for a warm mug of coffee, dry clothes, and feet on solid ground. And perhaps a nap with my head buried under a pillow to sleep the storm out.
“Ah, yeah.”
A car horn honks. The man rolls the window down just a tad and holds his middle finger up to someone. Ah, the universal symbol for ‘screw off’. I should’ve given it to him myself. I glare once again when he shakes out his wet hand in my car.
“Do you mind? This is pristine leather.” I sound like a snob, I know, and I don’t care. My dad kept this car in mint condition and I’ll be damned if I let some rude, obnoxious stranger spoil even an inch of it.
He grimaces, his expression remorseful. “My bad.” He glances at his wet T-shirt. “I’d offer to take off my shirt and wipe it up, but… I’m just as wet. By the way, that was my geek brother. He told me not to follow you. Which kinda meant I had to, so let’s blame this all on him, shall we?”
“I guess we know who got the brains in your family.”
“Cute,” he mutters, not in the least put off by my insult.
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
“Exactly,” he says, like that one word should make all the sense in the world.
Newsflash for him: It doesn’t. So I just glare.
“Okay, I can see this is going nowhere. So, yeah, I’ll get outta your hair. But before I go…” He pauses, his eyes flicking down to my lips and then back up to my eyes. “Can I get your name?”
I open my mouth to answer, but then I change my mind and snap it shut. The way his lips curl into a cocky smile tells me all I need to know. He expects me to give him my name. This man… This blockheaded bastion of testosterone who barged into my car, scaring the bejeezus out of me—and okay, maybe kind of made my insides squeeze in attraction—actually thinks I’m going to swoon at his feet. As if I should be grateful for his “escort” home.
“No, you cannot.”
“Come on. Why not?”
