Page 5 of Conception
“If I reward you for bad behavior, you’ll never learn.”
Oh my god. I sound like my home economics teacher, Mrs. Cartee. The woman was notorious for giving out loads of parenting advice when she, at fifty-four, had zero children of her own. Mom just loved those parent-teacher conferences.
“So you’re saying, if I’m good, you’ll reward me?”
“That is not what I meant.”
“It’s a small town, babe. We’re bound to run into each other sooner or later.”
“I prefer the latter,” I tell him, matter-of-factly.
“Hard to get. I like it.”
I huff. “Do you ever back down?”
“Not when I like the chase.”
“There’s nothing to chase.” My insides liquefy as his eyes travel down to my own damp T-shirt.
“Funny. I seeeverythingworth chasing.”
Without thinking, I lean forward and use my thumb to push his chin up so he’s no longer ogling my chest. “My eyes are up here, buddy.”
“Not buddy. But until I get your name, I’m withholding mine.”
“As if I care.”
Except I kind of want to know what to call him instead of just buddy. Not that I’m going to give in. Nope.
He sighs. Smooth, flat palms rise in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’ve taken enough of your time. I’ll find out who you are soon enough.” He shoots me a wink. “And I’ll wear you down soon enough, too.”
“Wear me down?” I ask, my voice nearly squeaking.
He ignores me. “And I guess I’ll just have to call you Sally until I found out your true name.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Sally?”
Dark eyes crinkle in their corners as his smile widens and turns wicked. There arenotbutterflies in my belly right now. There aren’t. Maybe an annoying locust swarm, but definitely not butterflies.
“Ya know.Ride, Sally, Ride,” he croons.
And those not-butterflies take flight at the innuendo. Still, I can’t help but roll my eyes. “Clever.”
“Thought so. What can I say? I’m kind of a gearhead.”
Dammit. Why do my insides go all twisty over a man who’s into cars? I just nod as if it’s whatever. “Cool.”
“I can see you’re impressed,” he says, the sarcasm evident in his tone. “All right, Sally.”
“Don’t call me Sally!” I exclaim, punching the leather beside my leg. “That’s a horrible name.”
He gasps in mock horror. “No, it isn’t. It’s a beautiful name. In fact, it’s my grandmother’s.”
“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry,” I rush out. But when his eyes flash with mischief, I’m pretty sure he’s lying.
“Now that you’ve insulted me, it’s only fair for you to give me your name,” he insists.
I fold my arms and glare at him. This is becoming routine. “That’s not your grandmother’s name, is it?”
