Page 33 of Himbo Hitman
“Right.”
He’s not his usual friendly self, and that isn’t making it any easier to shake the anxiety or behave like a normal human.
“You don’t seem like yourself,” he says.
“Yeah, well, you don’t seem like yourself either,” I throw back. Well done, Perry, ten points. Totally taken the heat off yourself.
Only St. Clare’s gaze gets gazier, and my jitters get jitterier.
I almost drop my third coffee of the day and manage to get my shit together as I pour his milk in, shake some chocolate over the top, and slam the lid on with a triumphant “Ha!”
“Ha?” he echoes.
“I’m done.”
“Right.” He reaches for the cup I place on the bench between us. “No smiley face today?”
He’s taunting me. At least, I’m ninety percent sure he’s taunting, and I’m not at all in a taunting mood. Sure, most of the time, I find it fun, but on days like today, where my actual bones want to be anywhere other than restricted to my body, I’m like a powder keg under a hot flame. “Smiley faces are a privilege, not a right.” I’m hoping that will send him on his way, but he doesn’t look in a hurry to leave.
“Did I do something wrong?” His eyes hold mine, and my guts are a mess of indecision.
Succeeds in a high-pressure environment? Normally that would be a big fat tick on my resume since I’m a hard guy to rattle, but knowing how to act in front of the guy who’ssupposedtobe in hiding because he’ssupposedto be dead is a new one, even for me. It’s going to take me some time to adjust.
“Nothing. Nope. Not one thing.” I grin wide, hoping it comes across as genuine. And failing, apparently, because he doesn’t return it.
“You know, Perry, you have very pretty eyes.”
I almost swallow my tongue. “Ah, w-what?”
“They’re trusting. Sweet.” There’s a small pause I’m compelled to fill in but have no clue where to start. “Memorable.”
“Memorable?”
He keeps on staring. “Not eyes I’d forget in a hurry.”
“Are—are you …hitting on me?” His tone doesn’t feel right, but the words have me thrown. Do guys usually compliment other guys’ eyes? I do a quick mental search to try and figure out if I ever have before, and nothing specific comes back to me, but it does seem like something I’d do. Not sure I’d use the wordpretty. Maybe cool. Interesting. The way he said memorable doesn’t feel like a good thing though.
St. Clare tilts his head, the only change to his expression the way his tongue flicks out for barely a peek as he wets his bottom lip. It’s gone too fast, but the tiny pink glimpse keeps playing in my mind. The way it makes my throat dry feels like a warning.
“Just stating facts.”
“Ah. Yes. Th-thank you. You have a, umm, very pretty …. ah, mouth?”
His lips twitch involuntarily, finally giving me a quick break through the intensity. “My mouth?”
“Sure.”
“Areyouhitting onme?”
My eyes shoot wide. “Just stating facts. I’m straight. Very straight. Very, very straight.”
“Straight.” He picks up his cup and takes a slow sip.
The fact he’s still standing there and not at all running and hiding like wegoddamn agreedhas the pulse in my throat throbbing.
“Pity,” St. Clare says. “My pretty mouth can do a lot of very pretty things.”
The blood drains from my head. I might be shit at speaking bad guy, but I can speak innuendo, and the suggestion of having that mouth wrapped around my … around …that… has the blood relocating to a very specific part of my anatomy instead.
