fell across his forehead. Colored smudges marred his white T-shirt. Faded black jeans hugged his thighs and outlined...other things. Very big things.
She finally found her voice. “Hi. I was wondering if you have cable TV.”
Moving just his eyes, he looked from right to left, then back at her. “Yeah.”
“Well, I’ve been twitching Mrs. Porter’s rabbit ears on that old black-and-white.” She hadn’t even tried, but he didn’t need to know that. “And I just can’t get Buffy . I was wondering if I could watch it on your TV.”
He did that left-right thing with his eyes again, as if he thought someone else might be hiding in his front porch shadows. “ Buffy ?”
“ Buffy the Vampire Slayer . I’ve never seen it, and I promised myself that I’d watch all the old reruns.” Warren had always said it was an idiotic show and a waste of time. Well, he was a History Channel addict; she could become a Buffy addict.
Nick pushed back that stray lock of hair. “You know, watching a show about a vampire slayer is a bad idea. Especially since just today, someone called me a vampire.”
With his dark hair and equally dark eyes, he looked a bit vampire-like. He was also playing her game. The wonder of it made her reckless. “She doesn’t slay good vampires, only bad ones.” She’d figured that much out. “And you’re a good one, right?”
A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “I thought they were all bad.”
“Well, that depends on your point of view.”
He stared at her for a long, considering moment, his pupils contracting, while she mentally prepared the perfect answer when he asked what her point of view was.
Instead, he squashed all her fun. “Lady, I don’t know what you want, and quite frankly, I don’t want to know. I’ve got work to do, and I don’t have time for divorced women on the prowl, looking for a substitute or someone to make their ex jealous.”
She gulped a breath. “I told you, I’m not divorced, at least not yet. And I’m not on the prowl.”
Okay, maybe she was. But only for someone who would make Warren see what he’d thrown away. There was the getting-laid thing, too. But he didn’t have to make it sound so...black widowish .
She continued. “And if you want to start getting nasty, what about you being a serial killer?”
He ran a hand down his chest, the material outlining a hint of male nipple. “You shouldn’t listen to gossip.”
She dragged her gaze from the potent sight. Hands on her hips, she glared up at him. “Neither should you.”
He cracked a smile. Her heart tripped. He had a devilish smile. “Touché.”
Silence stretched between them. It gave her too much time to think about that chest without a shirt on. Bobbie eased the tip of her tongue along dry lips. “So, what did they say about me?”
He fixated on her mouth. “Who?”
“Whoever was gossiping about me.” Duh.
His voice mimicked a female pitch. “She’s as sweet as the dickens. How her husband could have left her, we’ll never know.”
She covered her mouth to keep from laughing at his antics, while she blushed to the roots of her red-dyed hair at the same time. “They did not say that.”
He crossed his fingers and held them up. “Scout’s honor.”
“I don’t think that’s the correct hand signal.”
“Works for me. So tell me, what do you do that’s so sweet?” He eyed her up and down, as if she were ice cream melting too quickly in the sun.
She was melting.
“Cat got your tongue?” He was laughing at her. He also seemed to fill his jeans a little more tightly than before.
She really should stop looking down there. “I’m not sweet. I hate sweet. Patooey .” She scrunched her nose in disgust. “Sweet sucks the big one.”
“Interesting choice of words.”
Oh my God. Spontaneous combustion really did exist if the heat of her face was any indication. And the way his gaze seemed to turn to melted chocolate, oh my goodness. “I didn’t mean it that
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