Read Online She's Gotta Be Mine by Jasmine Haynes, Jennifer Skully - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jasmine Haynes, Jennifer Skully
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way.”
“Freudian slip?”
When in doubt, huff. She crossed her arms, tapped her foot on the wooden porch, and blew out a really big puff of irritated air. But the rising temperature on the porch was doing pleasant things inside her body. “I think we were originally talking about you, not me.”
“We were talking about you coming over here to watch Buffy.” He arched one brow, hot eyes lingering on her breasts. “The answer is still no.”
Darn. She sought something else to keep him from closing his door on her. “We were done with that subject and had moved on to whether or not you’re a serial killer.”
“Didn’t we discuss this yesterday?”
So what? “You never really answered.”
“Do you think I’m actually going to tell you? What if you’re my next victim? That would be like warning you.”
She’d really like to be his next victim. She tapped her foot a little harder. “I don’t believe it.”
“You don’t believe I’m a serial killer?” His lids did a slow blink, as if he scanned her body all the way down. Then up again. “Or that you’re my next victim?”
Even the tops of her thighs felt steamy now. She cocked her head to one side. “I don’t believe any of the gossip. I bet you’re every bit as angelic as your name, and that there’s not a mean, demented bone in your body. You’re clearly misunderstood and misjudged. And I bet whatever happened with Mary Alice Turner wasn’t even your fault.”
He took an extraordinary amount of time to digest her opinion. And she knew she’d said something terribly wrong. His eyes narrowed, his jaw tensed, muscles rippled in his cheeks.
“In case you haven’t noticed, Ms. Jones, I’m not a nice guy. I’m a total dickhead when it comes to manners. I can’t be bothered. So, if you’re wondering exactly what that means, let me make myself clear. I don’t invite strange females over to watch Buffy. I don’t return lasagna bakeware . And I don’t give a damn what my neighbor thinks about me.”
He closed the door in her face.
Okay. Maybe she shouldn’t have mentioned Mary Alice Turner quite so soon in the relationship. But she’d wanted to let him know she’d give him the benefit of the doubt. And of course, she’d harbored a burning curiosity about the story since Patsy had mentioned the girl’s name.
Well, there was always tomorrow. Then she’d wait until he mentioned Mary Alice.
* * * * *
The slap of her sandals on the porch steps died away. Nick leaned against the door and drew in a deep breath. If he didn’t know better, he’d have said he’d just finished a 10-K run.
She was one brick short of a full load, or something just this side of insane. Worse, she had that trait common to all women; she didn’t take no for an answer. Even being downright rude hadn’t flashed a bright red stop sign in her face. He was going to have to bar the windows and nail the door shut to keep her out.
She wanted something. Screw Buffy. Screw baked lasagna. She wanted a piece of him. He could feel it, taste it, smell it. Like her bubblegum scent. Sweet. Innocent. Irresistible.
He’d wanted to touch her, feel the heat of her, skim his thumb over her peaked nipple, slide his hands beneath her short denim skirt. Like a fresh canvas, he could repaint his life through her eyes. Expunge his mistakes.
Did she even have a clue how seductive that idea was?
Probably. He’d learned the hard way to avoid women who sucked up big-time, telling you how misjudged and unappreciated you were. Sobbing women with an agenda and a finger on your Achilles’ heel.
Damn, he was such a fricking idiot.
Because he’d wanted to tell her everything about Mary Alice. Closing the door in her face had been the hardest thing he’d ever done.
Chapter Four
Another day, another pocketful of tips. Let’s see, how many mistakes had she made today? Bobbie stared sightlessly into the front window of Bushman’s Clothiers and did a
“Freudian slip?”
When in doubt, huff. She crossed her arms, tapped her foot on the wooden porch, and blew out a really big puff of irritated air. But the rising temperature on the porch was doing pleasant things inside her body. “I think we were originally talking about you, not me.”
“We were talking about you coming over here to watch Buffy.” He arched one brow, hot eyes lingering on her breasts. “The answer is still no.”
Darn. She sought something else to keep him from closing his door on her. “We were done with that subject and had moved on to whether or not you’re a serial killer.”
“Didn’t we discuss this yesterday?”
So what? “You never really answered.”
“Do you think I’m actually going to tell you? What if you’re my next victim? That would be like warning you.”
She’d really like to be his next victim. She tapped her foot a little harder. “I don’t believe it.”
“You don’t believe I’m a serial killer?” His lids did a slow blink, as if he scanned her body all the way down. Then up again. “Or that you’re my next victim?”
Even the tops of her thighs felt steamy now. She cocked her head to one side. “I don’t believe any of the gossip. I bet you’re every bit as angelic as your name, and that there’s not a mean, demented bone in your body. You’re clearly misunderstood and misjudged. And I bet whatever happened with Mary Alice Turner wasn’t even your fault.”
He took an extraordinary amount of time to digest her opinion. And she knew she’d said something terribly wrong. His eyes narrowed, his jaw tensed, muscles rippled in his cheeks.
“In case you haven’t noticed, Ms. Jones, I’m not a nice guy. I’m a total dickhead when it comes to manners. I can’t be bothered. So, if you’re wondering exactly what that means, let me make myself clear. I don’t invite strange females over to watch Buffy. I don’t return lasagna bakeware . And I don’t give a damn what my neighbor thinks about me.”
He closed the door in her face.
Okay. Maybe she shouldn’t have mentioned Mary Alice Turner quite so soon in the relationship. But she’d wanted to let him know she’d give him the benefit of the doubt. And of course, she’d harbored a burning curiosity about the story since Patsy had mentioned the girl’s name.
Well, there was always tomorrow. Then she’d wait until he mentioned Mary Alice.
* * * * *
The slap of her sandals on the porch steps died away. Nick leaned against the door and drew in a deep breath. If he didn’t know better, he’d have said he’d just finished a 10-K run.
She was one brick short of a full load, or something just this side of insane. Worse, she had that trait common to all women; she didn’t take no for an answer. Even being downright rude hadn’t flashed a bright red stop sign in her face. He was going to have to bar the windows and nail the door shut to keep her out.
She wanted something. Screw Buffy. Screw baked lasagna. She wanted a piece of him. He could feel it, taste it, smell it. Like her bubblegum scent. Sweet. Innocent. Irresistible.
He’d wanted to touch her, feel the heat of her, skim his thumb over her peaked nipple, slide his hands beneath her short denim skirt. Like a fresh canvas, he could repaint his life through her eyes. Expunge his mistakes.
Did she even have a clue how seductive that idea was?
Probably. He’d learned the hard way to avoid women who sucked up big-time, telling you how misjudged and unappreciated you were. Sobbing women with an agenda and a finger on your Achilles’ heel.
Damn, he was such a fricking idiot.
Because he’d wanted to tell her everything about Mary Alice. Closing the door in her face had been the hardest thing he’d ever done.
Chapter Four
Another day, another pocketful of tips. Let’s see, how many mistakes had she made today? Bobbie stared sightlessly into the front window of Bushman’s Clothiers and did a
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