Page 30 of Golden Touch
He tilts his handsome face, considering me. He doesn’t look smug; he looks thoughtful.
“What if it’s a sign?”
“A sign? Of what?”
He crosses his muscular arms. “Maybe we’ve met a second time because the first one didn’t quite work out.”
“You mean like…” I almost can’t say it. “Fate? You’re joking.”
“Not joking.” He shrugs. “Just seems like getting a second chance to know each other is a gift from the universe. We shouldn’t turn it down.”
I feel like I’m being punked. Inked bad boys don’t believe in fate. “This is all very fascinating,” I say, making a little shooing motion. “Now let’s get out of here, before we both get hangry.” I turn around and step past him, heading for the door.
He makes a low, sexy sound behind me.
“Are you ogling my ass?”
“Oh, absolutely. Since you asked, I was just imagining how it would feel in my hands. Is that also against your rules?”
“You know it is,” I growl.
But I have the warm flutters again, damn it.
That night, we eat burritos together at the kitchen table, washing them down with some Corona and lime.
“Would your father break out in hives if he knew we were drinking an inexpensive mass-produced lager on his property?” I ask.
“Absolutely,” Nash says with obvious glee. “That must be why it tastes so good.”
I take another sip, and he isn’t wrong. This feels surprisingly festive. Nash has a playlist going on his portable speaker again. The current song is “You Look Good” by Lady A. and I don’t know if that’s a coincidence or more flirting.
And I can’t ask, because I’ll sound like I’m fishing for compliments.
When I admitted to Nash that I was lonely, it was the truest thing I’d ever said. And I never blast music in this house, because it deafens me to outdoor noises, and I’m fearful that I’ll miss something.
Even the simple pleasures of music were stolen from me when I ran away from Razor. But right now, I have food and beer and the company of a man who might—at the very least—behave as a deterrent to anyone who wanted to grab me and return me to Razor’s clutches.
After dinner, Nash declares that he’s going to shower and call his sister.
“Tell her congratulations from me!” I call as he heads for the stairs. “Can’t wait to meet the baby.”
“I will give her your love,” he says, pausing. “But I hear theyaren’t accepting any visitors for a little while. Except for my mother. It’s a germ thing.”
“I get it.”
“Would you, uh, help me find the right gift?” he asks. “I don’t know anything about babies.”
Ooh. I can think of nothing more fun. Shopping for babies is always a joy, but I can’t pass up this opportunity to push back on Nash’s assumptions. “Wait. You think a single woman just naturally knows what to buy for a baby? Like it’s part of having two X chromosomes?”
He leans on the banister. “Well, yeah.”
I snort.
“Livia.” He fixes me with his hot, caramel gaze. “You made the pumphouse livable on zero budget. Pillows on the old couch. Bright dishes in the cabinet. Your clothes fit you like they were designed for your rockin’ body. Your earrings match your top, two days in a row. Clearly you know a thing or two about shopping.”
My breath catches. I can’t believe he noticed the pillows. Plus, my earrings? And my thrift-store dishes?
He slowly smiles. “But never mind. I’ll ask someone else for help,” he says. “No big.”
