Page 13 of Love and Lingerie (Rockland Falls 2)

“Only about cutting it off.”

“Sounds kinky. I didn’t realize you were into that sort of shit.”

“You’re impossible,” I say with an eye roll.

“Are you seeing anyone?” he asks. Now that gets my attention.

“Are you asking me out?”

“Hell no. I’m trying to figure out if some pencil-pushing nutbag is gonna beat down my door for talkin’ to his girl.”

“You’re so dramatic. I’m my own person. No one tells me who I can or cannot talk to,” I tell him decisively.

“Oh, I don’t doubt it, Sweetheart. I just want to be prepared is all. I hate when I’m caught off guard and take a punch to the face.” He gives me a hard look.

“That wasn’t my fault,” I defend.

“No? I believe it was your ex’s fist that landed hard on my chin.”

“It didn’t even faze you. You threw two more right after.”

Latham smirks. “I do recall. And, had fun doing it.”

I can feel the moment we start to teeter too close to memories I’d rather forget. Standing up, I make sure my mess is cleaned up. “I should go.”

“You don’t have to,” he says, making no move.

“I need to let Snuggles out.”

With that being said, he finally stands up and walks around to my side of the desk. “Ahh, yes, the ugliest mutt this side of the Mississippi.”

“You’re mean. I hope she bites your balls next time she sees you.”

“As much as I enjoy a mouth on my balls, I think I’d rather it not be hers.” Something in the way he says that makes my face start to heat and my body start to sing.

“Anyway,” I start, drawing out that word a little too dramatically, “I need to go.”

“Yes, to take care of the dog.”

“And because I don’t want to be here when the poison starts to work,” I say all sweet-like. Leaning in, I whisper in his ear, “I just hate messes.” And because I apparently have no self-control, I inhale a nose full of his woodsy, sexy scent.

The look on his face is priceless. He stands up straight, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Poison?”

I pat his belly and give him a wicked smile. “I guess you’ll just have to wait and see.” Then, I turn on my heel and strut out of the office and to the front entrance, well aware his eyes are following me the entire time. I throw the double lock and pull open the door. “Oh, and Latham?” He meets my eyes, a guarded look on his face. “You might want to make sure you have a puke bucket handy.”

With the final word, I flit victoriously out of the hardware store and to my awaiting car. My triumph is short-lived, however, when I slip inside, turn the key, and nothing happens. I try again. And again and again. Still, my car doesn’t turn over. I smack my steering wheel, now angry and with a throbbing hand, and glance back up. Latham is standing there, a wide smile on his face, as he holds something up.

I realize immediately what it is.

He gives me a little wave, throws a bunch of sparkplugs in the air, shoves them into his pocket, and strolls back into the store.

Satan.

He wins again.

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