a chilling realization hits me and my gaze freezes on his unique eyes. Oh no . . .
“Y-you took me h-home the other night?” I stammer.
“Of course I did. Did you think I’d leave you passed out sick, lying on a lounge chair beside a pool?” His confirmation is laced with disbelief and arrogance, and if I were any other person, I would totally feel the same way.
Right now, I’m not sure what I’m feeling . . . stupid, exposed, and embarrassed sound like possible candidates.
“How did you know where I lived?” I demand, even though I have already figured it out for myself. I guess my question startles him because he eases back slightly. I have a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“You went through my goddamn purse?” I hiss. The tone of my voice makes him leap out of his chair.
“Didn’t your mother teach you that a woman’s purse is sacred? It’s the fucking Holy Grail! A man NEVER goes in it, even if we ask him to!” My voice has reached shriek levels and I had just cursed.
Perfect! Not only am I a slut, but also I’m a sailor too .
He has a thunderous look on his face. “No, my mother didn’t give me that important piece of information. I was trying to be a gentleman; I guess I should have just left you sprawled out by the pool for some pervert to find.” After that tirade, he suddenly seems more amused than angry.
Bastard knows my name, address, birth date . . . Oh crap, my weight. Hell, why can’t I lie on my driver’s license like every other woman?
“It’s an invasion of privacy. You had no right to go through my things ,” I spit out, trying to stand toe-to-toe with this giant.
“Oh really?” He moves closer, his voice lowered to an almost breathy whisper. “Invasion of your privacy? You didn’t seem to care what I invaded the other night when I had my tongue so deep inside you that I could taste your lip gloss,” he challenges.
I’m livid. My face feels beet red. This man vexes me like no other.
“I think we’re done here, or at least I am. Nice knowing you, Mr. McKay.” I salute him as
I stand up one final time.
“Oh, we are not done, not by a long shot. No fucking way are we done.” His voice rises now as he bends his head down towards me, trying to be nose-to-nose. People are beginning to notice, including the godlike Keenan Stone.
“Can you keep your voice down? What are you, twelve?” I ask quietly, still angry.
“No—twenty-five.” His reply is casual.
My heart drops into my shoes and I almost stop breathing. Twenty-five, this man is frickin g twenty-five years old. Oh God, I’m a cradle robber, a child molester. Even worse, I’m a cougar. This guy can date skinny, blond, plastic piranhas and he wants me, an old lady?
“I know what you’re thinking. I can see the gears spinning,” he gloats.
“Oh, I seriously doubt you know what I’m thinking—you can trust me on that.” I squeeze out from where he stands. “I’m leaving now.”
“Haven, please stay. I really want to get to know you. Can I at least take you to dinner?” he cajoles me, staring at me with hope in his gorgeous eyes.
This has to be a joke because this man can have any woman he wants, and here he is begging to take me to dinner. This entire ordeal defies logic. It has to be a sham, or maybe I’m on some new reality show called “Punk the Cougar . ”
“Look, I’m too old for you. I’m not wealthy so if you’re looking to be a kept man, I’m not the one for you. I’m sure you have a huge rolodex j ust filled with women’s numbers,” I spit out.
“Actually, they’re in my smart phone, and I am not interested in someone younger. I want you, and I don’t need your money because I’m rich.” His reply isn’t cocky, it’s just factual. He has no idea what he just said. I, on the other hand, am going to stew about it.
“Mr. McKay, I’m twelve years older,” I tell him, internally sighing because if he were my age, I would jump on his offer.
“I saw your
“Y-you took me h-home the other night?” I stammer.
“Of course I did. Did you think I’d leave you passed out sick, lying on a lounge chair beside a pool?” His confirmation is laced with disbelief and arrogance, and if I were any other person, I would totally feel the same way.
Right now, I’m not sure what I’m feeling . . . stupid, exposed, and embarrassed sound like possible candidates.
“How did you know where I lived?” I demand, even though I have already figured it out for myself. I guess my question startles him because he eases back slightly. I have a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“You went through my goddamn purse?” I hiss. The tone of my voice makes him leap out of his chair.
“Didn’t your mother teach you that a woman’s purse is sacred? It’s the fucking Holy Grail! A man NEVER goes in it, even if we ask him to!” My voice has reached shriek levels and I had just cursed.
Perfect! Not only am I a slut, but also I’m a sailor too .
He has a thunderous look on his face. “No, my mother didn’t give me that important piece of information. I was trying to be a gentleman; I guess I should have just left you sprawled out by the pool for some pervert to find.” After that tirade, he suddenly seems more amused than angry.
Bastard knows my name, address, birth date . . . Oh crap, my weight. Hell, why can’t I lie on my driver’s license like every other woman?
“It’s an invasion of privacy. You had no right to go through my things ,” I spit out, trying to stand toe-to-toe with this giant.
“Oh really?” He moves closer, his voice lowered to an almost breathy whisper. “Invasion of your privacy? You didn’t seem to care what I invaded the other night when I had my tongue so deep inside you that I could taste your lip gloss,” he challenges.
I’m livid. My face feels beet red. This man vexes me like no other.
“I think we’re done here, or at least I am. Nice knowing you, Mr. McKay.” I salute him as
I stand up one final time.
“Oh, we are not done, not by a long shot. No fucking way are we done.” His voice rises now as he bends his head down towards me, trying to be nose-to-nose. People are beginning to notice, including the godlike Keenan Stone.
“Can you keep your voice down? What are you, twelve?” I ask quietly, still angry.
“No—twenty-five.” His reply is casual.
My heart drops into my shoes and I almost stop breathing. Twenty-five, this man is frickin g twenty-five years old. Oh God, I’m a cradle robber, a child molester. Even worse, I’m a cougar. This guy can date skinny, blond, plastic piranhas and he wants me, an old lady?
“I know what you’re thinking. I can see the gears spinning,” he gloats.
“Oh, I seriously doubt you know what I’m thinking—you can trust me on that.” I squeeze out from where he stands. “I’m leaving now.”
“Haven, please stay. I really want to get to know you. Can I at least take you to dinner?” he cajoles me, staring at me with hope in his gorgeous eyes.
This has to be a joke because this man can have any woman he wants, and here he is begging to take me to dinner. This entire ordeal defies logic. It has to be a sham, or maybe I’m on some new reality show called “Punk the Cougar . ”
“Look, I’m too old for you. I’m not wealthy so if you’re looking to be a kept man, I’m not the one for you. I’m sure you have a huge rolodex j ust filled with women’s numbers,” I spit out.
“Actually, they’re in my smart phone, and I am not interested in someone younger. I want you, and I don’t need your money because I’m rich.” His reply isn’t cocky, it’s just factual. He has no idea what he just said. I, on the other hand, am going to stew about it.
“Mr. McKay, I’m twelve years older,” I tell him, internally sighing because if he were my age, I would jump on his offer.
“I saw your
Similar Books
