Page 9 of Hot Nights in Morocco
“Why books?”
I like to lose myself in someone else’s pain. It makes mine easier to bear.
I wave a hand at him. “Why not?”
“A belligerent bibliophile. How charming.”
“A procrastinating producer. Aren’t I the lucky one?”
“If you’re that desperate to know, I suggest you try Google.”
“I couldn’t possibly spare the time,” I say, smiling sweetly at him again. “I’ve just started a new job, you see. Something tells me I’m going to be very busy.”
He doesn’t say anything, but his grip on the steering wheel tightens. That’s something else I could major in with honors—pissing this man off.
Good.
Really?
He’s so abrasive, but I have to admit, there’s something alluring about his complete inability to give a shit about my feelings. Everyone except Lucy tiptoes around me and I’m sick to death of it. That’s half the reason I got on the plane here.
My gaze starts to travel over him, leaving no inch unchartered. That’s when I notice a small, livid, semicircle scar on the inside of his right wrist. An ugly blemish that’s in stark contrast to the smooth tendons beneath it. I go very still. I have something similar near the elbow crease on my arm.
He catches me staring and jerks his wrist away. “Keep your eyes to yourself. Every day I’m gawped at, and don’t get me started on the paparazzi. I don’t expect the same behavior from people on my movie’s payroll.”
“Sorry,” I mutter, embarrassed to have been caught scrutinizing something so private. Even so, it’s a fragile connection to him that I wasn’t expecting—a brief insight into a past as troubled as mine. “Can you at least tell me why you’re so uptight?” We’re zipping past smatterings of rust-colored palm trees and broken-down shacks on the outskirts of Erizo now.
“You think I’m uptight?”
I risk another glance at him. The corners of his mouth are lifting. Holy cow, this man is mercurial. He shifts emotional gears faster than a Ferrari.
“A little,” I say, shrugging nonchalantly. At least I hope it looks nonchalant. My hammering heart says otherwise.
“Are you mocking me, Winters?”
“I wouldn’t dare,Mr.Dalton,” I say, doing just that. I’m feeling bolder. His change in mood has shifted something between us.
“The crap I have to deal with today,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “HR sends usyou,and now my lead actress is trying to sabotage my entire shoot.”
She is?
He’s glowering at the road again. His frown lines have intensified into deep trenches of premonition. Outside, the scenery has transformed into more of those drifting golden dunes stretching far into the distance. Inside, I can’t stop fidgeting. The jeep’s air conditioning is blasting out cold air, but I’m feeling prickly and uncomfortable. It’s the closeness of Jake Dalton. He’s enough to set anyone on edge.
“Do you find me intimidating?” he asks suddenly, as if reading my mind.
“No,” I lie.Where didthatcome from?“Let’s reverse the question, shall we?”
To my surprise he starts laughing,genuinelylaughing at this. Like the mere possibility of it couldn’t be further from the truth. But,goddamn—that rich, deep, heavenly sound, that full mouth… I try not to think of all the Gemmas and Dees he has waiting back in L.A. for him.
“Do I findyouintimidating?” he mocks. “Unbelievable. Tell me, Books, does anything faze you?”
Books?
Yes,you,I want to say, rolling my new nickname around my head. I like it more than I should. I like it because he gave it to me. Oh, God. I amwayout of my depth, just as Lucy predicted.
“I’d have fired anyone else who talked back to me the way you have today. I should pack you off on the first plane back to London.”
“Then why don’t you?”Can he even do that?I make a mental note to ask Max if that’s part of the deal around here. I’m not having this man lording his ego trip over me.
