Molly laughs, casting a glance at the departing woman before shifting her attention to me. “I don’t think she was too impressed with your order.”
I shrug. “I know what I like.”
Her eyes focus on me, as though she’s got x-ray vision and is searching my soul. It’s not an intense, invading look, more like a deep observation.
“I love a man who knows what he wants,” she says, her lips curving into a satisfied smile.
This woman confuses me. My guard is dropping and rising like a sheet flapping in the wind. I don’t trust her, yet I find her disarming.
That’s part of her plan. Get you to trust her so she gets fodder for her article. The more ridiculous the better.
“I’m not one to beat around the bush,” I say, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms over my chest. “You have my undivided attention for the next fifteen minutes.” I tilt my head. “Considering you have a thing for microdates, I figure that should be enough to satisfy your date requirement.”
Her cheeks flush. “You’ve been investigating me.”
“You’re not the only one capable of using a computer.” I give her a sharp look. “Although you missed that Harry was gay.”
Her brow furrows. “What?”
“Your date last night?” I say dryly. “Does it count if he’s gay? Or will you just leave that part out and manipulate the truth for entertainment purposes, like I suspect you did in at least half of your articles?”
Her brows shoot up, and part of me is fascinated with the expressiveness of her face. Like you can read every thought in her head just by watching her eyebrows. But that’s ridiculous. She’s playing a role, and I’d best not forget it.
I open the clock app on my phone and set the timer. “Like I said. You have fifteen minutes, and your time starts now.”
Chapter Seven
Molly
If you’re only attracted to the wrong people, the answer is easy: be attracted to different people.
—Augusta Glower, Bad Luck Club
I don’t like looking at my Beyond the Sheets portfolio through Cal’s eyes. It does seem pretty insignificant. Spiteful, even. Hasn’t that same thought occurred to me dozens of times?
I shouldn’t blame him for thinking I’m too shallow to be chasing this story because I want to bite down to the bones of it. For thinking I’m the kind of joke that makes other people the punch line.
And yet…I do blame him. Hearing him say those words hurts in a way it shouldn’t. He’s a stranger, after all, and his opinion shouldn’t matter. I’m accustomed to being underestimated, especially by men. But this man interests me. Part of my hunger for this story is driven by self-interest—I want that job at Rogue Word—but I also want to shed a few layers off this mysterious man.
I mean that metaphorically, but I’ll be honest…I wouldn’t mind pulling his dust-spattered shirt off so I can see the treat that lies beneath. I’ve seen a lot of shirtless men, in between photo shoots for the blog and various dates, real and fake, with a proclivity for shirtlessness. I can spot a nice set of abs from twenty feet away, and ding, ding, ding.
But nothing’s going to happen between Cal and me, because he has made it quite clear that he has as much respect for me as he appears to have for this tea shop. Which is frankly shortsighted. Tea of Fortune is everything I’d hoped it would be, and maybe a little more. I mean, there are bouquets of crystals on the tables instead of flowers. Still, Cal’s not wrong—this is exactly the sort of place I would have brought a guy on a date for the blog. I can see it now, “Bad Luck Bro orders an iced tea because he doesn’t get that they can’t read tea leaves if there aren’t any.”
But that’s not why we’re here. He may think he has me all figured out, but he’s wrong. All the way wrong.
“I don’t make assumptions about people’s sexuality,” I say to Cal, brows arched. “You know what they say about assumptions.”
He raises his eyebrows, forcing me to say it.
“They make an ass out of you and of me.” Hint, hint.
To be honest, I did kind of guess about Harry, if only because of his implication that Cal was a dish anyone would be interested in…well, who wouldn’t be?
And, looking at Cal now, his clothes a bit dirty because he spent all day tearing down walls or whatever—which is sexy in a way I never considered—his hair tousled and sun-kissed, his arms a very respectable presence in his shirt, and those dark broody eyes, all I can think is that Harry was dead right. Who indeed?
Cal from the dog park was sweet and earnest, and this version of him…
He thinks he has one over on me, and the energy of it is bouncing between us in a way that’s both delicious and dangerous.
He snorts. “Seems to me you’re making plenty of assumptions about everyone.”
“Oh, are you ready to talk about Augusta?” I ask sweetly.
He tips his head a little, studying me, his expression inscrutable. “My ex-girlfriend, you mean?”
“As I’m sure he mentioned, Harry settled that little misunderstanding for me.” I flutter my lashes at him. “Who could blame me for assuming she fell for your…” I eye him up and down. “…charms?”
Another snort, but I don’t miss the flash of lust in his eyes. Good.
I’m playing with fire, I know. The last thing a reporter should do is try to seduce one of the subjects of her investigation, but I’m not really a reporter. Not yet. And I can’t seem to help myself.
I take a sip of tea, staring up at him over the rim, and make sure to slowly lick my lips after I finish. That flash of lust has almost eclipsed his anger. Almost.
“Why’d you want to meet here?” he asks, his voice a little husky. He’s leaning forward a little, like he can’t help himself, and I find myself looking at his hand on the table, remembering the feeling of those strong, callused fingers.
“Would you have preferred a meeting in your bedroom?”
He laughs ruefully at that. “Are you always like this?”
I hear the war of judgment and attraction in his tone. Although I’m pleased he still wants me—I still want him, and whenever possible, one shouldn’t be burdened by wanting alone—his tone burrows under my skin in a way I don’t like.
So I drop the act. “I chose this as our meeting place because I’ve been wanting to check it out.”
“Why, so one of the clerks can interpret the clump of leaves in my cup and tell me someone’s going to drop a piano on my head?”
A laugh sputters out of me. “How would that even happen?”
He shrugs. “You’d be surprised by the things that happen when you’re flipping a house. One time we were moving an old chest, and it fell open and a rat skeleton tumbled out of it, right onto my dad’s foot. He’s superstitious about bad luck, so he spent the next week throwing salt everywhere until I told him to stop.”
“See? It’s not too hard to tell me stories. And maybe I wanted to come here so someone would read my leaves.”
He just shakes his head slightly. “That’s not the way you write your stories. The guys in them always do something stupid.”