Chapter 8

8

L IZ

When I leave, his suit swishes as if he moves, yet his shoes don't make the slightest noise against the floor.

He only pivots slightly.

"How were the cookies?" he tosses behind me.

I pull to an abrupt stop.

Now, that was flirting.

Slowly, I spin around.

"Good," I say, smiling. "Did they get your coffee right the second time around?"

A grin flashes across his lips, his hard–to-trust eyes evading mine again, so maybe I was right.

He used his coffee as a pretext to interact with me in the shop.

Although, it seems too much of a stretch.

"Yes, they did," he says, bringing his eyes back to me.

"Are you always such an… uh… so difficult?" I ask, biting back ‘asshole' at the last moment.

"Only when they put sugar in my coffee," he says with a charming smile.

How precious of him.

I'd like to remind him he took quite a few sips of coffee before deciding his drink wasn't good enough and stepping into the cafe to give the barista a hard time.

But he'd know I stared at him.

And frankly, he doesn't need more validation than he's already received this evening from other people, especially the woman in a short dress.

"You don't like sweet things," I say.

"Not in my coffee," he retorts, his dimple surfacing as he gives me a flirting grin.

Smiling, I bite my lip, and his eyes dip to my mouth.

It's not my intention to flirt back.

It just happens.

"I wouldn't want to work for you," I say.

Why would I say that?

Our eyes connect, and he studies me like a seasoned connoisseur of life.

Behind the cool display of masculinity, a bloom of curiosity flickers in his eyes.

It's cold and cynical, and me spending intimate moments with him would probably be the same.

He'd show me heaven before warning me repeatedly not to get close to him.

I get the vibe that his worldly knowledge and life experience are only matched by his lack of commitment.

His soul looks like a dark door leading to a wall.

Some men occasionally hint that there is something worth saving behind a repelling emotional block.Not him, though.

He is only interested in satisfying some fleeting desire.

Maybe.

That's how he looks at me, anyway.

Like a man in front of a scrumptious cupcake interested in getting a bite without staining his shirt, having sticky crumbs on his fancy pants, or garnering a buttercream mustache.

Unsure of how to deal with the mess in the aftermath.

He may not like sweet things in his coffee, but he'd love to taste my sweetness.

He seems to want to find out if I, Elizabeth Fox, am imaginative enough to satisfy his needs.

He hasn't even checked my body.

Some men insist on doing that to the point of harassment, sometimes to annoy a woman and other times because they don't know any other way to get into a woman's pants.

Not him, though.

I've never caught him eyeing me.

Not in the coffee shop.

And not this evening.

All I got from him tonight was that he had no idea I was in the club.

Somehow I passed whatever test I was supposed to pass, and he finds me physically attractive.

However, judging by his company tonight, his taste in women is more sophisticated than a pair of sweatpants, a bun, or a colorful blouse.

I honestly start to wonder… Is there anything that can truly catch this man's eye?

Probably not.

I hold my own as he does his little surveillance thing, eyes probing my soul, his intuition working overtime.

He's versed in reading people and doesn't need much to reach a swift conclusion.

But in my case, the canvas is pretty much blank––there isn't much to see.

I'm not the woman he brought here with him tonight, nor the call girl Rain Sexton once was.

What are the odds of me knowing so much about him while he doesn't have a shred of information about me?

Rain may have been young and inexperienced when she met him, but she was also consumed with that gnawing feeling that she would never get over her ex.

She ravenously indulged in plotting her revenge when she collided with his life.

She was a meteorite, while I am more of a breeze. He never knows which way I go.

There was a blaze with her, although their feelings weren't deeper than the shallow grave in which they buried their affair. But they were significant enough to keep the sexual firestorm alive.

Maybe he's looking to relive that experience, rekindle that fire inside him. Maybe the woman waiting for him outside, and others like her, have never fulfilled that side of him.

A deep sigh quivers inside me, yet I let nothing out.

I'm not the woman for him.

But I might still be something.

He seems intrigued by what he sees on my face.

"Is the man outside your boyfriend?" he asks.

He's still searching for clues in my case, not knowing that I wouldn't touch him with a ten-foot pole.

That doesn't mean I'm not attracted to him.

What makes things worse is that the more interested he is in me, the more attracted I am to him.

A moth drawn to a flame.That's what I am. Entirely oblivious to the possibility of changing my life for a thrill.

I wouldn't get into this story without a modicum of knowledge on how to satisfy this man.

And physically satisfying him is my last concern.

He is a big boy.

He knows how to find pleasure in a woman's body.

Truthfully, I want to know what makes him tick.

What got him so entangled in Rain's story that he considered marrying her at some point?

Nothing good, I suppose.

Regardless, I know too much about him to just consider him a random guy.

"The man outside is a new friend I made tonight."

His eyebrows tilt slightly, his lips holding a secret smile despite looking stern.

Too stern.

"A friend?"

I pull my bottom lip between my teeth and nod.

"Mm-hmm."

"There's no boyfriend then?"

And that's my chance.

"Why do you want to know?"

I expect a platitude from him.

Something like… ‘You are so special someone must swoon over you. You're too cute and adorable.'

That kind of crap.

"I don't want to know anything in particular. I was just making conversation," he says, and that stings. "I thought you'd look for a different type of man."

I stare at him, poker-faced. You can't read anything on his face either, but that's a given.

The man just made his move.He's a man of a few words, but I knew that already.

I'm aware of the dialogue precluding his first night with Rain.

There wasn't much talking. Suspense, mystery, and dizzying risks linked hands and danced around them.

Rain was courageous, maybe crazy, or just desperate at that point. She said yes to him on the spot.

David Moore is used to witnessing that kind of impulsive reaction in a woman, but he won't get that from me.

Not unless I don't want to see him again.

Oh, and I forgot.

How awkward things would be considering we run in the same circles and Rain Sexton is very much part of our lives.

So David Moore is a big no-no for me right now. The kind that might become a twisted ‘yes' later.

I'll have to figure this one out.

"What exactly did you have in mind for me?"

I find myself teasing him despite the unease crawling up my spine.

My shoulder is pressed into the wall as he closes the gap between us, and bells go off in my brain.

'He needs to stay away from you…' a little voice blares in my head.

Antagonizing that little voice, I cock a hip so the contour of my body garners his attention.

His eyes––again––never dip.

Perhaps he wants my brain first, and that is news to me.

He slides his hands into his pockets.

"You're a writer, aren't you?"

Oh, surprise, surprise.

All my hesitant assumptions are dancing samba in my head.

The validation feels sweet.

He paid attention to me.

Or he's improvising.

But I've got something from him––proof of interest.

His assumption is flamboyant and slightly outrageous, but I let it slide.

He's started to dance with me.

"What makes you say that?"

"You spent some time writing in that coffee shop."

"I could've used my laptop for work."

"Have you?"

Hmm.

"No."

A pause ensues.

"What made you think I was writing?"

"You struggled with it."

Smart and sexy.

Now I'm puzzled.

"Were you watching me?"

"No. You were watching me," he says, his quiet laugh rolling over my skin like melted honey.

I'm grateful the dimness conceals the burn in my cheeks, not that he needs to study my face.

His intuition, much sharper than mine, tells him things about me every time I take invisible steps in his direction.

How do I know?

His face is a reflection of my feelings.

Every time he notices a change in my demeanor, a shift, a hint, a palpable thought, he hits on me, smooth and tactical like a war machine.

And it works.

My interest in him has been nourished, and so has been his interest in me.Perhaps my strategy, as simplistic as it is, works.

It's never worked on anyone before.

Trying to ignite someone's fascination with me has often fallen flat. People wanted what they wanted, and they were quite clear about it.

Most of the time, we ended up with pieces of ruined lives that we tried to escape from as quickly as possible.

"What can I say?" I murmur. "I'm flattered that you have noticed. Is that why you came inside the coffee shop?"

"No."

He lies to me, his eyes cold like steel blades, his chin slightly tipped up so he can look down his nose at me.

He makes no secret about it, but that closes the topic.

"You still didn't tell me what kind of man you had in mind for me."

"Since you're regularly tapping into your creativity, you should use your imagination."

I laugh, and my sincere amusement puts a smile on his face.

"You thought you were the man for me," I say.

His answer arrives promptly.

"Not in the slightest."

I feel the burn of his words on my skin.

"You deserve better," he says, his statement and neutral smile throwing me off.

We're no longer playing with each other, and the silence growing around us only confirms that.

What would make a man like him say that?

And if it is the truth–it does have the asperities of hard truths––then why tease me like that?

Is he setting me up? Testing me?

"You don't know that," I counteract, provoking him. "No one knows that sort of thing. Not even I know that."

I expect him to ask me if I want to find out, but nothing comes from him.

By respecting my opinion, he handed me a riddle.

Why would he say that?

When men toss that line at women, it's usually an exit strategy, a coward way out accompanied by fake concern and empathy instead of genuine commitment.

It belongs to the ending more than the beginning of a relationship.

We haven't even started anything yet.

The next question burns my lips.

"What about the woman you brought here with you tonight? Is she your girlfriend? Does she deserve you?"

A satisfied grin glints in his gaze

That was a bait, and I bit.

So embarrassing.

"The woman is a friend."

"You're spending the night with her."

"The entire night? No. I have stuff to do tomorrow morning."

That's a non–answer.

"Otherwise you would?'

"No."

Despite his frankness, I still don't know what that means.

"Okay, good to know…" I say nonchalantly, pushing off the wall and turning my back to him to leave. "Nice talking to you," I add, stepping away without looking back.

"What about you and your friend come to my table upstairs?" he says, making me stop and swivel like a traffic cop.

"Are you inviting us upstairs?"

A soft smile curls his lips.

"Yes."

"Why would you do that?" I ask.

"Don't look for hidden meanings. We have food and drinks. Ask one of the bouncers to direct you to my table," he says curtly as if suddenly in a hurry.

He tilts his chin to highlight the seriousness of his invitation before turning around and walking away.

I'm staring at his back while he moves steadily toward the other end of the corridor.

"Tell him David Moore has sent you."

Later he pushes through a door and vanishes from my line of sight.