Page 415 of One More Kiss

“You know, hair up in one of those ironic messy buns that probably took you at least ten minutes to get just right. You’re wearing tight, black leggings with gray Ugg boots, and one of those scarfs that’s more for fashion than it is useful.” He shrugs, unapologetically. “All you’re missing is a Starbucks Pumpkin Spice Latte in your hand and a pair of Gucci sunglasses.”

“And that makes me a basic girl?”

“That’s right, sweetheart.”

I point a finger in the air at him. “Don’t call me sweetheart,” I tell him, annoyed. “And is that what they consider Southern hospitality down here because, if so, I gotta say—not impressed.”

He laughs again, and it actually sounds real. “Just laying out the facts.”

“Well, I mean, if that’s what we do around here with someone you literally met minutes ago, I’d say it’s my turn.”

“Go for it. Give me your best.” He crosses his muscular arms over his broad chest, and it takes me a moment to remind myself to stop looking at his incredible body. Getting a better view of him in the light, I see a layer of sweat or water covering his chest and torso. Either he was working out or just got out of the shower. But who the hell works out in jeans, especially in this gross humidity?

“Well, for starters, you answer the door shirtless. You have this whole edgy, heartbreaker look going on, which is probably because you think you’re God’s gift to women. Probably in a band and are used to sleeping with groupies every weekend. You flash that smirk around as if you know it gets you whatever you want, which if I were anything like a basic girl, I would fall head over heels for. You strut your body off as if it’s the only way to grab my attention in hopes I’ll just start stripping off all my clothes. Your hands look rugged and have calluses, so aside from playing in a band on Friday and Saturday nights, you work with your hands. A mechanic or builder, maybe.”

He studies me as I continue to ramble, looking over his physique and handing out every stereotype he matches. If he wants to judge me based on five seconds of meeting me, then I have no choice but to do the same.

“So, how close am I?” I ask, feeling confident with my assumptions.

He purses his lips and nods. “I’m impressed.”

“Well, I do have a knack for reading people. It’s what makes me a great writer.”

“Is that so?” He arches a brow, and I nod confidently. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, sweetheart, but you couldn’t be further from the truth,” he says, matter-of-factly. “However,” he continues in a low seductive tone, “you are right about one thing.”

I roll my eyes and groan. “What’s that, Casanova?”

“I was hoping you’d start stripping off all your clothes.”

“You’re so vain,” I hiss at him. “I would never—”

“You’re wearing six layers of clothing in ninety-degree weather,” he cuts me off. “Stripping off your clothes is to make sure you don’t pass out from a heatstroke on my newly remodeled kitchen floor.”

I release a long-exaggerated breath, seriously over his sexual remarks and condescending attitude.

“If this is what southern men are like, count me out.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. Your basic girl snark and sarcasm will scare them off for you.”

I bite my tongue to keep from cursing him out. I don’t have the energy to deal with this egotistical asshole.

“Can we just skip the rules and whatever else for now, and just give me the damn key, please? I’ve been traveling all day, I’m exhausted, and I need to wash the travel stench off me.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything but—”

“Can you just please stop being a dick for one minute?” I pinch my eyes shut and inhale deeply.

He raises his brows and then reaches into his pocket, revealing the keychain with a single key hanging from it. “Your wish is my command.” He holds it out, and I quickly grab it before he can pull it away.

“Thank you,” I say, firmly. He opens the back door for me and points me in the direction of the guesthouse.

He stays silent as I grab my suitcase and roll it behind me down the porch steps. The walkway to the guesthouse is lined with gorgeous flowers and bushes that I hadn’t expected, especially after meeting the owner—who, by the way, I still didn’t get his name.

I spin around, determined to make him tell me, but when I do, a swarm of bugs start biting the shit out of me.

“Oh my God!” I wave my hands around frantically, spinning and trying to get away. I scream, hoping he’ll help me or at least get me out of here, but all I hear from his direction is laughter.

“What the fuck?” I shout, thrashing my arms around, trying to dodge them.

“If you had let me finish, I would’ve told you that your perfume was too strong. It attracts the mosquitoes. But so does travel body odor and sweat.”

“You asshole,” I mutter, knowing he’ll hear me anyway.

“Tried to warn ya,” he says casually, and when I look up at him, he’s leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed like the smug asshole he is.

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