Page 60 of Executing Malice
Confused.
These are things she wants. I know she sees them for what they are.
“They’re for you,” I murmur.
“I don’t get them,” she repeats. “Why are you doing this? What do you want?”
I could tell her the truth, but it will all make sense in seven days. It’s too early to ruin the surprise.
“I want you,” I tell her gently.
I see her falter. I see the uncertainty and doubt clouding those beautiful eyes.
“No. I don’t trust you. Until you show me your face, nothing you say or do is going to change my mind.”
I don’t try to.
I don’t say a word when she snaps on her heels and stalks back to the bank. I remain on my bike, cradling months of effortand dedication. Having a gift thrown back in my face leaves a sour taste in my mouth I refuse to swallow, but I’m not deterred.
After all, it doesn’t matter what she says on this matter. She’s going to be mine one way or another. I just need to be patient a few more days.
I tie up the cloth straps on the tote and deposit it on the hood of her car. No one’s going to touch it. Though, I am curious what they would think if someone did.
Bet they would be flattered, unlike some people.
I cast a narrowed side eye in the direction of the bank.
So rude.
I put a lot of energy and thought into that gift. Took a lot out of me ... literally.
I rock my head slowly from side to side, disappointed. But it’s fine. I’m a big boy. I can take a rejection.
I’m about to exhale and pull out my phone to check the board for any jobs I can do easily from my phone when I hear a perky, “Excuse me?”
Startled, I turn my head in the direction of the voice and find myself staring at a pint-sized teenager brandishing a phone and a wicked gleam in her eyes. Sleek, dark strands are combed back into a shiny, black waterfall down her back, over a soft, wool sweater that is stretched to capacity across an incredibly generous chest.
I immediately jerk my gaze back to her round face and flushed cheeks, suspicions prickling.
“Yeah?” I mumble, the hesitance unmistakable in my tone.
Eyes the warm puddles of melted chocolate sweep along the edges of my helmet, trace the dome like she’s trying to find a way under. It’s such a predatory gleam I can’t stop the urge to fold my arms, especially when she nibbles on her bottom lip and lets her heavy lashes trail over me to settle ... on my crotch.
Where is her parental unit? Why was she not taught to never talk to strangers?
“Are you lost?” I mumble, casting a glance over and along the sidewalk for a responsible adult.
“You’re not from town, are you?” she purrs in a tone I used to hear a lot in high school from the cheerleaders’ table. It’s accompanied by a lazy little sway from side to side. “Everyone’s talking about it.”
That interrupts my searching to focus entirely on her. “What about?”
A shoulder jerks up in the direction of her ear. The hem of her sweater inches over the waistband of her jeans to reveal a hint of pale, smooth belly.
“That you’re probably dangerous.” Despite the weight of those words, my unwanted companion grins slyly. “Are you?”
“I could be. Probably best if you hurried away.”
She does the exact opposite.
