A burst of laughter escaped him. The sound pleased her, and she mourned when he stopped. “Good to know because I’m not looking for one.”
“You wouldn’t need one anyway.”
A delighted grin lit up his face. “You’re flirting. I like it.”
Her eyes widened. “Trust me, I never flirt. Just stating facts.”
He shook his head and those emerald eyes gleamed with amusement. “A reluctant flirt, then.”
Sierra had no idea why his statement pleased her. Her looks were solid enough to attract men, but she’d been told she was way too direct and serious. When she moved to Corolla, she’d been hopeful to absorb some southern charm, but it had never happened. She was too impatient to get to the punch lines. One of her biggest weaknesses.
Flirting was for women who played. Lingered. Women who enjoyed waiting for the payoff. Women who had…fun.
Hell, when was the last time she had actual fun?
Sierra pushed the gloomy thought aside. “Nope, not part of my makeup. But I’m sure you’re used to every person in your path flirting with you,” she said with a tiny snort.
His brow climbed. “Was that an insult cloaked as a compliment?”
“Maybe? Not that it’s your fault you were born beautiful. I’m sure in some ways it’s a terrible burden.”
Another rich laugh. “For someone who doesn’t flirt, you have the potential to be an expert.”
“Now who’s the flirt?”
Their gazes met and locked across the room and damned if that tingle blazed into a heat that warmed and melted her blood. A few seconds ticked by as they regarded each other. Sierra wasn’t ignorant enough to think it was special. She was sure this man had a willing companion every night, but God, it felt good for her body to finally come alive. She’d been dead for too long.
He spoke with care and precision she immediately respected. “I’d love to sit closer and chat, but if you want your space, I promise to leave you alone.”
Sierra studied his face. He was a stranger, but she believed him. And on this rainy, quiet night, she ached for some real conversation without any expectations.
“Why not?”
As she took a seat next to him, her nostrils filled with the scents of whiskey, clove, and fresh rain. He smiled and motioned for the bartender to bring her another glass of wine. “Hi. I’m—”
She lifted her hand and cut him off. “No names. If that’s okay?”
It was so much easier to let go when there were no attachments. Her pain was something she’d been carefully hiding from practice—not wanting to drag her family or friends or co-workers into the mess. Here, with him, she’d be free not to care.
He glanced down at her hand. The empty patch where her wedding ring had been was a lighter skin color. “Married?”
His tone was neutral but his body stiffened. “Not any longer.”
The tension eased. Sierra wondered if he had morals about sleeping with married women, or just wanted to know. His reaction said it was a line not to be crossed, but she knew nothing about him. “Okay.”
The word seethed with meaning. Her shoulders relaxed. The bartender brought her another glass and she switched out. “Tell me about your good news,” she said, taking a sip. The dry, oaky liquid slid down her throat with ease.
A tiny frown creased his brow. “Won’t that make you feel bad? We can talk about your day.”
She shook her head. “I’m tired of me. I want to hear about your big deal.”
“Okay.” With one graceful motion, he shed his jacket and hung it on the back of the chair. Her mouth watered at all those lean muscles moving underneath the crisp white shirt. “I’m in property development. I’ve been trying to buy this building for a while, but it was a long shot. Finally managed to snag it at a basement level price.”
“How much?
“Ten million.”
She whistled. “Nice. What are you going to do with it now that you own it?”
