Page 120 of Playing With Fire

“No.” He quickly says at the exact same time Darcy meows and bumps his head against Bishop’s forearm. Bishop moves it away. Darcy does it again.

No freaking way.

“I saw that.”

“Saw what?”

Bishop takes another drink of his shake, but I catch the twitch at the corner of his mouth. Whatever weird alliance has formed in this apartment while I wasn’t paying attention can remain their little secret.

I reopen my laptop. “Whatever.”

“What’s wrong with that one?”

I follow his attention to the listing on my screen. “Nothing.”

“Then why’d you make that face?”

“What face?”

“The one that says you’d rather lick a toilet seat.”

I enlarge the photos. “It’s sixteen hundred dollars for four hundred and twelve square feet.”

“That’s not an apartment. That’s a closet.”

“It has a dishwasher.” I defend an apartment that I don't even really like.

“Luxury.” He deadpans.

“And laundry in the building.”

“Where?” He asks skeptically.

I scroll. Oh.

“Basement.”

“Hard pass.” He shakes his head.

I turn the laptop toward myself. “You don’t get a vote.”

“I didn’t ask for one.”

“Yet you're still giving one.”

“I’m giving an opinion.”

“Repeatedly.” I remind him.

“Free of charge.”

“Lucky me.” I fight the urge to roll my eyes… and lose.

His grin appears, dimples and all. And for one dangerous second, yesterday morning flashes through my head.

His face against my neck. His hands on my waist. My fingers freeze on the trackpad. Nope.

I focus on the apartment. Distance. Right.