I’m arguing with my own self inside my head. Clearly, I’ve lost my mind. I don’t get it. I don’t get my reaction to him.
Correction. I don’t want to react to him, and I can’t seem to help myself.
Chapter Three
Gage
THE TWO WOMEN eye me carefully, the older woman—who I assume is Marina’s aunt—relaxing somewhat.
At least someone has a sense of humor around here. You could cut the tension in this cute little European-style bakery with a cake knife.
“How are you, Marina?” I walk toward the counter, noting how she grips the edge so tight she’s white-knuckling it. Do I make her that angry? Or maybe . . . that nervous?
I know she makes me nervous. She’s all I think about, which can’t be healthy.
For once, I really don’t give a damn.
“Good.” She lifts her chin, her expression neutral. Only her eyes give her away, a hint of nervousness fluttering in their depths. This woman standing before me is completely different from the one I first met a few nights ago. This version looks younger, sweeter. More like the woman in the photo on the Autumn Harvest website. Not quite as poised as the elegant siren luring me in with her dangerous smile and sweet voice. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
“My conscience wouldn’t let me stay away. I had to seek you out and apologize for how I offended you.” I gesture toward the flowers that cost me a shit-ton of money. Cost doesn’t matter though, since I believe she’s worth it. Getting me an in with her father, her entire family?
Even more worth it. Plus, I can eventually write off the expense.
Christ, you’re a jackass.
I can’t even admit to myself that I really wanted to buy her those flowers. That the bright, colorful arrangement made me think of her. Hiding behind it in the hopes of getting an in with her father is only part of the reason I’m here.
Marina Knight. She’s the true reason I’m standing here worried I’m going to make a complete ass of myself.
“How did you find me?” she asks warily.
Now she probably thinks I’m a stalker. I can’t give away my source. Yet. Archer’s the guy I want to hook her with eventually. If I can’t charm her, I need to find another way to make her see me again. “I figured out who you were and put it all together.”
“Hmmm.” That’s her reply. She sounds like she doesn’t believe me.
Great. I wouldn’t believe me either.
“Do you like the flowers?” I ask when she still doesn’t say anything else.
“They’re beautiful,” she admits grudgingly, making me smile. She doesn’t return it, screws her lush mouth into a little scowl instead. “Thank you,” she mumbles.
“So.” I offer her my best, most humble smile in return. “Am I forgiven?”
“You think it’s that easy, Rat Boy? That you can just waltz in here and have yourself declared forgiven all because you threw your credit card at the most expensive flower shop on this street and bought the biggest arrangement they’ve got?” Her aunt snorts and shakes her head. “I don’t think so, young man.”
Raising my brows, my gaze meets Marina’s. Guess the aunt has no problem letting her opinion be known. “It was an honest mistake,” I say. “And well, you sort of jumped to conclusions, you have to admit.”
Marina’s expression hardens in an instant. Jesus, what is with me constantly saying the wrong thing to this woman? I’m usually a smooth-talking motherfucker—direct quote from Archer—and if anyone is an expert at that subject, it’s him. I put women at ease, I make them laugh, and if I’m lucky—on certain, especially rare occasions, at least lately—I get them to agree to come home with me.
“You’re two seconds from getting kicked out of here,” she whispers fiercely, her eyes shooting fire. Aimed right at me.
“Sorry! Shit.” I throw my hands up in front of me defensively, her aunt’s mutterings of “stupid Rat Boy” coming from somewhere behind not going unnoticed. “I just . . . I’m sorry.”
Marina crosses her arms in front of her chest, the movement plumping up her br**sts, drawing my attention. I can’t help it, I’m a guy and she has nice ones. She’s wearing a black T-shirt with AUTUMN HARVEST written across the front in elegant gold script, her long blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail, minimal if any makeup. She looks tired. There are dark smudges under her eyes and her mouth is tight. “Go on,” she prompts.
Hell. I have to say more? Breaking out in a light sweat, I forge on. “I was rude. And I didn’t mean to offend you. I had no idea who you were—”
The aunt makes a harrumph noise, but I ignore her.
“—and my friend had to point out who exactly you were a few days later.” Stuffing my hands in my front pockets, I shuffle my feet, feeling all of about ten years old and having to confess everything I’d done wrong to my dad. Waiting for the inevitable punishment that was sure to come.
“Who’s your friend?” she asks, her voice curious.
What? No ‘you’re forgiven,’ or ‘thanks for the apology’? I’m boggled. And I may as well reveal my secret source. I have the distinct feeling she’s ready to tell me to get the hell out.
“Uh . . . Archer Bancroft.”
Her arms drop to her sides, curiosity written all over her pretty face. “I know Archer. Vaguely. He owns the Hush and Crave hotels, right?”