He didn’t even glance her way. “Don’t make me call the cops to come and haul you out of here.”
She puffed out her cheeks. The least he could do is look at her. She hadn’t wiggled into these jeans for her health. Was probably damaging a few internal organs by wearing the tight denim. Not to mention how bad her feet hurt. But the overall effect was worth it. The stupid heels added to her considerable height and the dark jeans made her legs look endless, cupped her butt and gave the illusion she had hips—no easy feat. Her shirt was silky and cut low enough to give a glimpse of her black lace bra. She’d straightened her hair, taken time with her makeup.
She’d been cursed with too many cute genes to ever pass for beautiful, but right now, she looked hot. Sexy.
Kane was obviously too blind to notice.
Leaning back against the counter, she subtly arched her back, held on to the edge with her hands, pushing her chest out. “Your apartment is...” She glanced around. “Uh...nice.”
Lovely. If you liked worn, beige carpet, walls that needed a fresh coat of paint—preferably something other than the current dingy yellow—and a kitchen straight from the 1970s, complete with orange Formica counters. At least it was clean. Then again, he kept O’Riley’s, the bar downstairs, his bar, spotless.
A point in his favor.
“You’re very neat,” she blurted.
Biting the inside of her lower lip, she winced. Neat? Was that the best she could come up with? Next thing she knew she’d be complimenting him on his straight teeth and bringing up the weather.
Oh, sure, now he looked at her, when she was blushing and mentally kicking herself. Not just looked, either, he studied her, rather intently. “Are you off your meds or something?”
She giggled—giggled, for God’s sake—the sound forced, high-pitched and way too loud. Why did flirting have to be so hard? It was as natural as breathing to Sadie. You’d think that was the kind of genetic trait that could be passed from sister to sister.
Charlotte swatted his arm, meant for it to be playful, but ended up hitting him hard enough to make her palm sting. He didn’t so much as blink.
“Don’t be silly,” she said, seemingly unable to bring her tone back to its normal range. “I just meant that, well, you’re so...” Rough. Hard. Dangerous. She gestured to him in all his bare-chested, tattooed glory. Let it go at that. “I thought you’d be—”
“A slob?”
“No,” she breathed, the lie like a stone in her throat, choking her. “I mean, maybe I’d briefly considered you’d be...less tidy. With a motorcycle in the living room, a pet boa constrictor and a closet filled with scarred leather jackets.”
“Stairway’s too narrow for my bike,” he said solemnly. “But who says the other two aren’t true?”
She swallowed. He was probably kidding about the snake. Still, she stepped closer to him, kept an eye out for any sudden, slithering movements. “Anyway, it’s nice. That you’re tidy. Did you learn that in the military?”
In the act of getting a coffee mug from an upper cabinet, he paused. “I never told you I was in the service.”
“Everyone knows. Small town. No secrets.” Though seeing him now, he seemed a far cry from a spit-shined soldier. “Do you miss it? Being a Marine?”
He looked at her as if she’d just slapped his face and called his mother ugly. “I was a Ranger. In the Army.”
“Ranger. That’s Special Forces, right?”
He grunted.
So charming.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I always get them confused. Is it one grunt for yes, and two for no?”
No smile. No glint of humor in those green eyes. Nothing. He simply watched the coffeemaker as if it held the answers to life’s most pressing questions. Since he refused to notice what a fetching image she made, she straightened. She needed a few more sessions at the yoga studio before she could hold the arched pose for any length of time, especially after a twelve-hour shift in the E.R.
Covering her mouth with the back of her hand, she yawned so hard her eyes watered. A shift that was quickly catching up with her.
She wandered into the living room. His apartment was small, maybe half the size of her own, with a view of the empty armory building next door and the Dumpster in the alley.
She continued her exploration, trailing her fingers over the back of a checked high-back chair when he stepped into the doorway. He leaned against the doorjamb, the angle causing his stomach muscles to clench, the ridges clearly defined. Steam rose from the mug in his hand as he sipped his coffee, his biceps rounding with the movement.
Now that was somebody who knew how to pose.
She felt his gaze on her, steady and searching, as she crossed the room, so she put a bit of sway into her walk, and wished there was more to see, to pretend to study, but the man put the minimal in minimalist. Other than the ugly chair, the only furnishings in the room were a small, flat-screen TV on top of a scarred wooden end table and a lumpy floral couch. No knickknacks. No decorative pillows or throws. No pictures or personal effects at all.
She glanced down the small hallway. The door to the right was shut—bathroom?—the other, at the end of the hall, open far enough to give her a glimpse of his bed, the covers rumpled, the pillow still indented from his head.
She imagined him getting out of that bed, tugging his jeans on, cursing and muttering about people interrupting his precious sleep.
Was the bed still warm from his body? Were his sheets soft or crisp? Did his scent linger on the pillow?
She crossed to stand in front of him. Funny how now that he looked at her, she felt more vulnerable, exposed, though he was the one only half-dressed. She had no idea what to do, what to say to get him to cooperate with her. That was the problem with not making plans. No road map. She needed one. Her sense of direction sucked.
“Uh...I’m...uh...thinking of getting a tattoo,” she said.
He raked his gaze over her, from the top of her extremely smooth hair to the tips of her ridiculously high heels. “That so?”
Did he have to sound condescending? So disbelieving?
“That’s so.” She edged closer, breathed in the rich scent of coffee, the spiciness of his soap, surprised by how pleasant she found the combination. “Did they hurt?” she continued, her tone husky. Breathless.
He shrugged. Lifted the mug to his mouth again, almost clipping her on the chin.
She wanted to swipe it out of his hand, throw the damn thing against the wall. Couldn’t he see she was flirting with him? The least he could do was reciprocate, especially when she was so out of her element.
Hard not to be when he was the epitome of physical perfection. She should have known he’d look like some freaking underwear model.
While she was too tall. Too thin. With small breasts and more angles than curves.
She’d have to make sure they kept the lights off when it came time to get naked.
When he lowered his arm, she touched the tip of the sword on his biceps. Traced her fingertip up the sharp line to the flame. His skin was warm. Softer than she’d expected.
“What does this one mean?” When he didn’t answer, she tried a teasing smile, one that would bring out her dimple—and hopefully loosen him up a bit. “Or did you just think it was pretty?”
His body went rigid. “In some cultures it symbolizes judgment.”
“Judgment,” she whispered almost to herself. “I would have thought you’d choose a different emblem, something