17
1037 Words
The Irishman grins, leaning over his plate and setting his elbows on the table. He props his chin in his hands and says, “Thirty-eight.”
My inhaled breath is sharp and loud. “I am not thirty-eight years old.”
He pauses to take a leisurely, half-lidded inventory of my face and chest. “Thirty-six?”
I say flatly, “That butter knife can also be used as a carving tool.” “Five? Four?”
“I think it’s time we called it an evening, Mr. Quinn.” I shove my chair out from under me and stand.
He lounges back in his chair and smiles, folding his hands over his stomach and stretching out his legs, the very picture of the lord of the manor at ease.
“But we haven’t had dessert yet.”
Mamma—the traitor—seems to find the entire exchange highly amusing. In fact, she seems to find Mr. Quinn himself highly amusing, something that outrages me.
She’s the one who said the Irish are despicable!
I grit out, “We don’t have any dessert.”
“Except for that panna cotta you made this morning,” says Mamma. “There’s some tiramisu left, too.”
Quinn’s smile blossoms into a huge grin. He flashes all those nice white teeth at me, not knowing or caring that he’s in mortal danger.
I glare at my mother. “How kind of you to remember, Mamma. Isn’t it time for you to go to bed?”
She looks out the kitchen window, then back at me. As it’s only six thirty and the middle of August, it’s still light outside. But since she’s chosen the wrong side of this fight, she needs to leave.
She stands. Quinn stands, too.
“It was lovely to meet you, Mrs. Caruso,” he says.
His smile appears to be genuine. Not the s**t-eating, f**k-you smile he’s always gifting me.
Mamma says, “Nice meeting you, too, gallo sciocco. Good luck.” She hobbles out of the kitchen, chuckling to herself.
Smug, Quinn looks at me. “Took to me like a duck to water, don’t you think?”
I say flatly, “It’s the dementia.”
“No, lass, your mother’s as sharp as a tack.”
“Which is why she kept calling you a goofy rooster.”
“Admit it. She likes me.”
“She likes maggot cheese, too.”
He grimaces. “What the bloody hell is maggot cheese?”
“Look in the mirror and find out.”
He gives me a sour look, then takes his seat again and glances pointedly at the refrigerator.
“Mr. Quinn, I’m not serving you dessert. Please, go now.”
“Why would I want to leave when we’re having so much fun?”
“You’re as much fun as gangrene.”
“Ouch.”
He pretends to be serious, but I can tell he’s trying not to laugh.
I grab my plate of uneaten pasta, stride over to the sink, and dump it down the drain. I run the water and the garbage disposal at full blast, hoping the racket will deafen him.
He leans over the table, picks up my empty glass, and refills it with pinot. Over the din of the garbage disposal, he shouts, “I’ll try the panna cotta and the tiramisu. And I love mango ice cream, if you’ve got it.” He smirks. “If not, I’m sure you could whip up a batch, since you’re such a walloping good cook.”
I turn off the water and the disposal, grip the edge of the sink, close my eyes, and take a deep breath, praying for strength and for the ceiling to give way and collapse onto his head.
When I open my eyes, Quinn is staring at me with such burning heat, my heart flip-flops.
“Are you afraid to be alone with me, lass?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You sure? You look a bit flustered.”
“This is how I always look before I throw up.”
He pulls his lips between his teeth. His eyes sparkle, and his chest starts to shake.
He’s laughing at me again.
What a big f*****g surprise.
“Mr. Quinn—”
“Spider.”
I glare at him, heat burning my cheeks and my heart pounding. “I will never call you that stupid nickname. Now please. Go.”
He tilts his head and examines my expression. His eyes are still hot, but there’s something soft in them, too. Something…unexpected.
He points at my empty chair and orders, “Sit.”
My back stiff, I answer through clenched teeth. “I don’t respond to commands. I’m not a dog.”
“God knows you’re not,” he says hotly. “Now get your fine arse in that chair, woman. Don’t make me tell you a third time.”
That sounded distinctly like a threat. I snap, “Or what?”
He growls, “Or I’ll take you over my knee and teach you some bloody manners.”
This bastard just threatened to spank me!
My heart takes off into a thundering gallop. My hands start to shake.
My breath is shallow, and there’s a high-pitched ringing in my ears.
I can’t remember the last time I was this furious.
Oh, wait. Yes, I can.
The last time he was in my house.
I glance longingly at the wooden block of sharpened kitchen knives on the counter.
Quinn says softly, “Reyna.”
I look at him. Big, masculine, and handsome, taking up all the space in the room. His gaze like a forest fire and the faintest hint of a smile hovering on his full, sculpted lips.
Suddenly, I can’t wait to get out of here.
But I already know enough about the Irishman to realize that the only way that will happen is if I give him what he wants first.
So I sit.
I grab my glass of wine and guzzle it.
Then I look at him in nervy silence, waiting.
He sits there and smolders back at me, a whirlwind of unspoken questions in his eyes.
- Writer
