Four Men, Tome 3 : Love You Madly

** Extrait offert par Alison Kent ** (VO)

He brought his own glass to his mouth, maintaining eye contact as he swallowed. And then, ignoring the basic rules she’d set, asked her the one question he was most curious to have her answer.

“Why me?”

“Do you want me to be honest?” she responded even though he wasn’t sticking to the deal upon which she’d insisted. Then again, neither was she. “Or do you want me to be nice?”

He stared at her for one long moment, then laughed.

She saw it begin in his eyes; tiny laugh lines appeared, barely visible in the glow from the fan’s light above him. She saw it next in the dimples that bracketed his lips.

But it was the sound he let go, a great gust of amusement, a severing of the tension around which they’d been dancing, that grabbed hold of her heart and squeezed.

Yes. Her heart. The very organ she’d determined to keep out of his bed.

>From an emotional standpoint, this encounter was not going the way she’d wanted. His fault for the laugh. Her fault for being susceptible.

Physically, however, she held out great hope that the sparks between them had only just begun to fly. “I’ll take that to mean honesty works for you?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said and raised his glass in a toast.

She settled into the closest chair, pretending to relax as she crossed her legs, as she slowly let her dangling foot swing. “I like the way you look.”

“Well, that’s certainly honest,” he replied, taking the chair opposite hers, leaning back, stretching out his legs and crossing his ankles.

“Too much so?” she asked, running her index finger around the rim of her glass and adding, “Would you prefer I be subtle? That I approach you in a bar? Or offer to buy you a cup of coffee at Café Eros? We could flirt and make small talk. You could wonder about my intent. I could pretend to think about letting you take me home.”

He’d set his wineglass on the table while she talked, and now held it in place with two fingers threaded around the stem, his palm flat on the base.

She studied the dark hair dusting his wrist and the far edge of his hand. Then she wondered how close the crystal was to breaking; he was so very rigid, his body so very hard and still.

“That all seems like such a waste of time,” he finally said, to which she replied, “I agree.”

And then she waited, her heart beating hard, and watched him nod, watched him pick up his wineglass and drink, watched him watch her all the while.

It was a strange sort of cat and mouse they were playing, a game that if done right meant two winners, a game that if done perfectly would mean no regrets, no heartache.

No heartbreak.