He wrapped strong fingers around his glass and examined it, but only for a second before turning his attention back to me.
I cleared my throat, then asked, “How long have you been staying at a motel?”
“Few weeks.”
I nodded. Took another sip. “Do you like it?”
“It’s a bed.”
I nodded again and looked around, mostly to keep my wayward gaze from locking on to his chest. He had clothes draped over a third chair in a corner, clothes I’d seen him wear often, simple yet exquisitely tailored. The bathroom light was on, and I saw a few manly toiletries, but nothing extravagant. And the bed looked like it had been made before someone lay across it. Before Reyes lay across it.
“How long are you planning on staying?”
“Long as it takes.”
“As long as what takes?” Was he a temp of some kind? Perhaps a construction worker or professional assassin?
“My business.”
“Oh.” Clearly he had no intention of elaborating. “What do you think of the town? Do you like it here?”
That time, he thought about his answer more thoroughly. When he spoke, it was with a singular intensity. “I like some of the people in it.”
I brightened. “Me, too. I love Cookie, the woman I work with, and her husband, Bobert.” When he raised a questioning brow, I amended the name. “Robert, actually. I just call him Bobert. And I like Dixie, my boss. She’s so great.”
“And the cop?”
His questions surprised me. “The cop?”
He dropped his gaze back to the glass. “Your boyfriend.”
“Ian?” I asked, taken aback. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“You’re always with him.”
My eyes rolled of their own accord. “No, he is always with me. Big difference.”
“Then tell him to get lost.”
Who was he to tell me what to do? I stood, utterly annoyed. “I’ll tell him when I’m good and ready. What do you care, anyway? You have throngs of women throwing themselves at you. Have you told any of them to get lost?”
“Throngs?” he asked, eyeing me as I picked up the sandwiches and headed for the door.
“And why did you invite me in here when you’re in a relationship?”
“I’m in a relationship?”
I turned. As if he didn’t know. “You’re seeing Francie.”
“I’m not seeing anyone. And who the hell is Francie?”
“The waitress at the café? The gorgeous redhead with legs as long as the L train?” When he continued to frown, I added, “You always sit in her section? She serves you coffee and giggles every time you look her way?”
He shook his head. “No clue.”
Even though he had to be lying, his answer made me much happier than it should have. Then reality sank in. “Wait, she told me where you live. She implied that she’d visited. More than once. Described the carpet even.”
“Then she’s breaking and entering.” He took another swig. “Would it bother you if she had visited?”
I snorted. “Not even.” I’d planned on storming out, but my curiosity got the better of me. I strolled to his nightstand. Ran my fingers along a Rolex. He must have met Scooter, too, though his looked way more authentic than mine. “So, why are you living in a motel?”
I felt a slight bristle come off him.
“I was… seeing someone.”
A soft gasp escaped me. No idea why that would surprise me. “Was?”
“She left me. No good-bye. No note. Nothing. Just vanished into thin air. I had nowhere else to go.”
I sat on the side of the bed. “I’m sorry, Reyes. When did that happen?”
“A while back. I’ll get over it. I have no choice. She’s forgotten all about me.”
“I seriously doubt that.” No woman in her right mind could forget the likes of Reyes Farrow. Of that I was sure.
I glanced up at the thermostat. It read fifty-five, but it had to be at least seventy-five in the room. My bones were finally beginning to thaw. “I think your thermostat is broken.”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at it, and while I loved the attention he showered upon me, I had places to be and people to save. Fingers crossed.
“Well, thank you for letting me warm up.” I stood and tried to hand him the towel. He stood, too, but didn’t take it, so I draped it over the back of the chair I’d been sitting in. “I have to get home.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“It’s one block.”
“It’s seven degrees.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You’ll be frozen.”
I didn’t dare let him drive me home. I would attack. I knew it as surely as I knew the sun was going to rise at dawn. Being in his presence here was bad enough. But get me in a car with him, a warm one with soft music and mood lighting from the dashboard, and I’d be a goner. A goner with a criminal record once Reyes filed charges against me for assault.
It was so time to leave. I put my hand on the doorknob then turned to say good-bye. He stood right behind me.
He was so unimaginably warm. I’d never felt anything like it. Heat drifted over me, saturated my soaking-wet shirt, penetrated every pore on my body.
I started to open the door, but he reached over me and pushed it shut. Before I could question him, he took the bag of sandwiches from me and draped a jacket over my shoulders. A thick leather jacket that weighed more than I did. It swallowed me. Cocooned me in him. His warmth. His scent.
“I can’t take your jacket.”
“I have another,” he said, turning me to face him so he could zip it up as I threaded my arms into the sleeves. I watched as his long fingers tugged at one side and fastened it. The muscles in his forearm bunched and flexed with the effort. As did the ones on his chest and stomach. It took every ounce of self-control that I had not to reach out and slide my fingertips over them. He did the same with the other side, and I realized the jacket was adjustable.
Unfortunately, it didn’t help much. It still swallowed me, and I no longer had shoulders or hands, but that was okay, too. The length would keep my fingers from turning into flesh-flavored Popsicles. He curled the cuffs, but only once. They still hung past my fingertips.
After a moment, I realized he’d stopped and was staring down at me. I looked up into the glittering depths of his mahogany irises. A soft line had formed between his brows as he studied me, and I realized for the thousandth time I could not read him. Not like I could most people. I felt emotion roiling within him, but it was jumbled, chaotic, a mixture of desire and concern and regret.
His gaze dropped to my mouth, and I wondered just how many drinks he’d had. So I asked.
“Just how many drinks have you had?”
“Not enough,” he said, his voice oceans deep.
“Not enough to forget her?” To forget the woman who still haunted him? The jealousy that spiked within me did nothing to boost my self-esteem.
“There isn’t enough alcohol on the planet to make me forget her.”
That stung. He was clearly hung up on his ex, and I was standing there like a schoolgirl hoping to be asked to prom. A foolish schoolgirl.