Page 8 of Alone With You
“My health isn’t your concern, Macallister.”
“And I’m trying to be an adult, Jenny.”
“Listen.” She rolled her shoulders. “I don’t know how to cook. Period.”
“I’m not expecting balsamic-glazed salmon.” He waved a chopstick. “A burger will do.”
He just wasn’t getting it. “I order in a lot. My schedule doesn’t allow anything else.”
“Nothingelse?”
She glared at him with a fork still in her mouth. What was he digging for?
“I have a friend who works twenty-four-seven like you. He’s very successful, owns whole buildings. I bet you lead the lab where you work.”
“I’m an associate professor,” she conceded, trying to sound not too defensive. “I have a lab of my own.”
“But no partner. No lover?”
Her jaw tightened. Was he flirting or was he playing cat and mouse? “We don’t have to get to know each other. I’m only here two weeks. Who I sleep with is none of your business.”
“I disagree, Red.” That green gaze pierced right through her. “I need to know if we’re going to have visitors.”
“There will be no visitors. I’m here to work.”
“That’s good news, Red.”
His eyes twinkled with something like humor. Was there something funny about her abstinence?
She said, “You’ll extend me the same courtesy, of course.”
“What courtesy?”
“No visitors. I don’t relish bumping into Bunny or Fi-Fi wandering around the kitchen in lingerie in the morning.”
“Bunny?” A flash of teeth. “Fi-fi?”
“Am I not making myself clear?”
“Oh, I hear you.” Dropping his chopsticks on his empty plate, he stretched his bulging arms out behind him, and then linked them to cup his head. His eyes glittered between lowered lids. “No visitors for me. I like my privacy, too.”
“Liking privacy doesn’t necessarily exclude female visitors.”
He nodded at her. “You’re a female visitor.”
“Not of the type we’re discussing.”
He grunted and let his chair sink down to its four legs. “You won’t be wandering around in the morning wearing lingerie, then.”
She concentrated on her plate, half-empty, remembering the heavy cream-colored silk nightgown tucked in her rucksack. The one that smelled of Chanel no. 5, the bodice edged in lace.
She did like pretty things.
“I’ll make a point,” she said, “of covering up.”
“Don’t do it for my sake, Red.”
“Logan.” She swept her napkin off her lap and planted it beside her plate. “I have a request.”
