Page 11 of Lying Is My Love Language

He blinks, as if that’s the most exhausting sentence he’s heard all week.‘Not interested.’

‘In what, conversation or human interaction?’

‘In you,’ he says simply, reaching for a beer from the outdoor bar like we’re not still mid-scene.

I stare at him.‘Okay.Little blunt for someone who probably thinks eye contact is foreplay.’

He cracks the beer open with a signet ring on his hand.‘Don’t take it personally.City girls aren’t my type.’

My jaw ticks.‘You don’t even know me.’

He gives me a once-over – not rushed, just thorough enough tofeel insulting.‘I know enough.’He takes a slow sip, eyes glinting as if he’s enjoying himself.Which makes one of us.

‘Right.And what exactly do you know?’

‘You showed up in heels to a working farm.You probably drink champagne like it’s a personality trait.And you practically threw yourself at my feet.Bit full-on, don’t you think?’

‘Itripped,’ I correct.

‘On me.Physics is a bitch.’

‘You’re out here in jeans and an Akubra, butI’mthe cliché?’

He tilts his head, maddeningly calm.‘Difference is, mine’s practical.Yours is curated.You scream high heels, high maintenance, gone by Monday.’

I grab a glass of champagne from the bar behind me.‘Better than screaming “emotionally constipated farmhand who hasn’t touched a woman since his restraining order”.’

His mouth twitches.A real smile, maybe.Dangerous territory.

‘You done?’he asks.

‘Not even close.’

He leans in a fraction, all heat and arrogance and eucalyptus- scented aftershave.‘You’re not used to people saying no to you, are you?’

‘No,’ I say sweetly.‘Mostly because they don’t.And when they do, they don’t smell of diesel fuel and generational trauma.’

He actually laughs – low and sharp.‘You think this is flirting?’

‘I thoughtthis’ – I gesture between us – ‘was me being polite.But sure, let’s call it a cultural misunderstanding.’

He tips his beer in a lazy mock toast.‘To clear boundaries.’

I clink my glass against his.‘To good instincts.Mine clearly need work.’

We drink.We stare.The silence burns like the grass beneath us.

I should walk away.I should go find Ella and tell her this wedding guest is hostile and possibly cursed.

Instead, I say, ‘So … whatisyour type?’

He grins.‘Not you.’

It’s the meanest, hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me.

‘Jamie?’Abbey’s voice slices through the stand-off like a champagne cork to the temple.She’s behind me, glass in hand, smirk firmly in place.

Blue Eyes steps back, amusement still tugging at the corners of his mouth.‘You must be B2.’