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I sit on the other end of the sofa and pick up my drink from where he’s placed it, on a coaster on the coffee table, and I hold it like it’s some kind of lifeline to reality and good sense.
He finishes the page he’s on, slides a finger down between that and the next one and turns it. Finally, he glances at me. “Really?”
“What?” I frown.
He waves the book in my general direction before closing it and setting it down. Ryder crosses his legs. “The hair, the old dude at the homeless shelter vibe pajamas, you know.”
I pull my legs up beneath my chin and shoot him a look. “How do you know that’s not the look I was going for?”
“I’m pretty sure you were.” He leans forward. “If I was so inclined, this wouldn’t stop me making a move. It’s sexy in its own way. Except the hair. That makes you look like a librarian. Actually, I take that back, because librarian fantas—”
“Please.” I push the book and him away. “Of course you have a librarian fantasy. If it’s female, you’ve got a fantasy.”
He shrugs. “Is that a problem?”
“Ryder, yes. You have to get this shit under control.” His mother’s words come back to me, and the purpose of why he’s here, why he hired me. Not to mention the fact he’s flirting like it’s breathing and my hormones are in overdrive, acting like the worst kind of naïve, acting like he means it.
I’m not his type. I don’t want to be his type. Spending hours on hair and make-up and clothes and appealing to a man bores me. Take me or leave me has always been my motto. So why does this one affect me so much?
The stupid physical crush, that’s what it is.
“I’m not going to do anything,” he says.
“Because I’m not your type, unless you class female as a type.”
He shoots me a low-lidded look, then sets down the book and picks up his drink. “You think I’m immune to you?”
“What does that even mean?”
“That you don’t affect me.”
I sigh. “Ryder, you’re saying this because I’m the only female near you. The only one you can have any kind of…one-on-one contact with for the rest of the month. Now, since you’re here, we need to talk about those plans.”
“Shifting the subject?”
“This is the only one we’re discussing.”
“Not why your toenails are siren red, but your fingernails are beige boredom?”
I’m not going to laugh. “They’re a very light pink.”
“That’s even worse.”
I snatch up my drink and hold it. “It’s the sort of color that goes with anything. I work for a living.”
“So do I.”
“What I mean is,” I say, taking a swallow of the cool whiskey, “is I have to present in a certain way.”
“Is frump a certain way?”
I just stare at him. “I’m a frump who wears old homeless man pajamas? Sinclair, keep this up and I’ll be putty in your hands.”
Ryder starts to laugh. “Jesus, Elliot. I wouldn’t even call a frump a frump, I’m not that into death wishes. And I don’t think there are frumps, just clothes that don’t show off assets how they should and how the fuck do you do this to me?”
“Do what?”
“Tie my words into knots?” He slides across to me and my breath is caught in my throat as he reaches out, touching my hair. “I’m good with women. Very good.”
