Page 38 of Tempted Hearts
“That’s dangerous,” I said.
“What is?” She set her glass down.
“Depending on me,” I said.
Her smile curved slowly, deliberately. “Who says I’m depending on you?”
Jesus.
I should have looked away. Should have said something neutral, but she licked a dot of pesto from her thumb, and every rational thought I possessed short-circuited.
A soft sound escaped from her. “God, that’s good.”
I tried not to imagine her in a different situation making that sound, saying that very phrase again.
“Careful, Cole,” she murmured, eyes locked on mine. “You’re staring.”
I wasn’t.
I was drowning.
She lifted her glass again, lips brushing the rim in a way that felt obscene for how simple it was.
And then—soft, wicked, knowing—she whispered, “Point for me.”
16
JULES
I was flirting.
Since Riggiomore, and maybe before that, pretending I wasn’t was a big fat lie, and according to my therapist, that was as useful as duct-taping a crack in the Hoover Dam and saying, “What leak?”
When I told her I wanted more time for my fiction writing, she said, “It’s cute how you joke your way out of the things that matter most to you. But eventually, you’ll have to want something without a punchline attached.” As Cole and I made our way from dinner toward whatever destination we were headed to next, I had to admit it. Not only was I flirting.
It was fun.
With Cole Ford.
Who would have guessed?
Every drink, every shared story, seemed to bring him closer to “new Cole” and further away from “old Cole.” I could see now why the guys hung out with him. But that still didn’t mean lighting a match meant I should toss it into a dry forest.
He was still one of the most emotionally unavailable men I’d ever met. Basically, a recipe for heartbreak. So why couldn’t I stop attempting to rack up points?
“No way,” he said as we strolled down the cobblestone street. “You don’t get a point for smiling at me like that and pretending it wasn’t strategy. It has to be actual wit, not weaponized dimples.”
Weaponized dimples. I kinda liked that.
Somehow our innocent point game had turned into a competition on who could charm the other person into admitting they were having fun.
“I disagree.”
“Too bad you’re not keeping score.”
Except, I was. Just not of the game. And according to my calculations, Cole was flirting with me too.
“What do you think?” he asked, changing gears. “Doesn’t look like this is much of a late-night town?”
