Page 23 of The Storm

“The kind of person?” I repeat flatly.

His eyes are moving up and down me again. “The kind that enjoys visualizing their goals. I imagine you have a list somewhere.”

“I don’t make lists.”

“No?” His gaze flicks over my face again, unhurried. “And here I had you pinned as somebody who enjoys rules.”

I cross my arms over my chest. Someone pushes past me and jostles me closer to Nick. “What does somebody who enjoys rules look like?”

His grin is downright wolfish, and I can’t make any sense of him. He’s a storm of different emotions at all times, and I can’t pinpoint most of them.

“Proper,” he says. “Self-aware. Well adjusted. Accomplished.”

How the hell does he manage to make those arguably good qualities sound like something to scoff at?

“Oh, yeah. I see what you mean. It’s so much better to be a complete fucking mess.”

“It all depends on the perspective.” He snags a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and throws it back with practiced ease, getting rid of the evidence just as swiftly as he puts the glass down on the floor, next to the bottle I placed there earlier. Not that anybody would notice or care at this point.

“It’s like driving,” he continues. “Some people key the destination into the GPS and take the shortest possible route. Others will take the random exits and stop to admire the view along the way. Live a little while they’re at it. Make the trip worthwhile. Cross their fingers they’ll end up somewhere good.”

“Which is nice and all, as long as you don’t make any promises to be somewhere.”

He rolls his eyes. “The saint-in-training strikes again.”

I blink and a laugh escapes. “The what?”

His dark eyes move up and down me slowly. I avoid meeting his gaze. Looking at him makes my mouth go dry. No. Not looking at him. Nerves make my mouth dry. It’s not him.

“You’re too nice,” he says.

My gaze flies back to him in surprise.

“I’m sorry?”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. Once again, he’s laughing at me. Once again the back of my neck heats, and I grit my teeth.

He tilts his head to the side. “Which word is giving you trouble?”

“What’s wrong with being nice?”

“In my experience, there’s absolutely nothing less exciting than someone who is too nice.”

My whole face burns because there’s so much suggestiveness in his tone.

“Is that concern about me? That’s unexpectedly touching.”

Somehow I manage to sound flippant. It’s by design. Otherwise he’ll make some dumb comment about what a sheltered life I’ve lived or about how experienced he is in all the areas I’m not, or something in that ballpark. And he’ll look impossibly derisive, and then, once again, I’ll feel like an idiot.

He grabs another glass of champagne and chugs it. I try to swallow too, but it’s suddenly difficult. Because I’m looking at his throat. The way it moves.

I want to bite it.

The thought is just there in a flash, abrupt and immediate like they sometimes are. Unwelcome. I don’t get to prepare myself for it, I just get to deal with the aftermath. The sickening, too-hard beat of my heart. The loud voice in my head that tells me I’m an idiot. The anxious moment ofdid he see me looking?Did anybody else see?

I shouldn’t notice him.

I don’t want to notice him.