Page 24 of Art of Love
Déjà vu.
Those words made something click in my mind. Like he’d said it before...
Must have been at the bar the other night. I remembered him saying that, and I remembered feeling turned on.
He smiled. “Having a memory?”
“Why would you think that?”
“Your cheeks are red. I was hoping you were thinking about the other night.”
“I’m not sure why you think my misfortune is funny.”
“You think sleeping with me is misfortune? Love, most women would kill to sleep with me.”
I looked at him and blinked several times. The thing was, I didn’t doubt what he was saying. I just couldn’t stand men who were full of themselves.
“Not me.”
“And yet you did, and all because you thought I looked like Brad Pitt.” He chuckled, looking like he was loving this far too much.
“Maybe if you didn’t idolize the man, I wouldn’t have thought that. Who knows, your accent may even be fake.” I didn’t know why, but I seemed to lose my nerve around this man and start acting like a teenager who didn’t think before she spoke.
He laughed, and the sound reached deep inside me. “Dearest Jia, I can’t do much for you if you think my accent is fake, and I can’t do much either if according to you, I look like and now idolize Brad Pitt. Thanks for the compliment. Now, as much as I love these battle sessions of ours and would love to continue with them because it’s sort of sexy to watch you pout like that, we need to get down to business and get to work.”
It was the way he spoke. That was what made me crazy. The combo of the accent and what he said.
“I’m not pouting. I’m scowling.”
“Okay, it’s still sexy. And we still need to get to work.”
“I don’t want to work with you.” I shook my head.
“Ouch. Can I ask why?”
Now I was pretty sure I was full-on scowling. “Really? Does two nights ago ring a bell?”
He leaned forward, too close, and I could smell the alluring scent of his aftershave. I caught a glimpse of his tattoo on the edge of his neck, and my eyes lingered there.
“Jia.” He tilted his head to the side, and his locks fell across his shoulder.
“What?”
“Can you really say, hand on heart, that you’re mad at me because what happened two nights ago was all my fault?”
“Well...”
He was inches away from my face, and it was hard to think about the question when he was so close I could see the slight changes to the hue in his eyes.
“Well, what? Am I required to assess how drunk you are when both of us set out to drown our sorrows in abarload of drinks?”
I knew what he was saying. I knew he was right. I was still so mad though, but mad at myself. More than at him. He was just a reminder.
“No. I guess not.”
“Also, can I point out that you could have done worse? Thank God, you just happened to see me first. You could have ended up with Bubba.”
“Bubba? I don’t remember any Bubba.”
