Page 14 of Maxwell

Her dismissive shrug grated during an already uniquely irritating conversation. Nothing she said made sense. Women didn’t operate this way. At least, not in his experience.

“Am I not your type or something?” Maxwell asked. He needed answers. His logical brain couldn’t compute what was happening. There had to be a reasonable explanation for her behavior.

“Um...”

“You think I’m too nice?”

“No, I don’t think that,” she said with a little laugh.

He didn’t like the way she answered the question, as if it was absolutely preposterous to believe he was a nice guy.

His back straightened. “What’s the problem with me?” he demanded.

“There’s no problem. You’re just not my type.”

In all his twenty-nine years, Maxwell couldn’t remember ever being told that before. “What the hell is your type?”

Her gaze flickered away from his, dropping to the floor, as she mumbled something he didn’t hear.

“What was that?” Maxwell asked, leaning closer.

Her head snapped up. “Nice guys are my type.”

Damn.

He looked at her, and she looked at him. A muscle knotted in his jaw. “You don’t think I’m a nice guy?”

Her silence was the answer.

“For your information, there are women in this city who would kill for another night with me.”

“Somebody’s a little full of himself,” Jasmine muttered.

“They know a good man—a prize—when they find him.”

“Is the prize in the room with us?” Jasmine looked around, pretending to search.

She was actually dissing him. The hell?

Maxwell clenched his jaw. At this rate, he’d grind his molars smooth before the end of the conversation. “This is a joke, right? Reverse psychology or something?”

“No, Maxwell, I’m genuinely not interested. I promise I won’t be stalking you.” She spoke in a neutral voice, with no inflection, very even toned. “You should be glad. Working together could have been really awkward, but luckily, we both know that we’re not what each other is looking for. We had fun and can move on.”

Maxwell felt his shoulders tighten. “The perfect situation.”

“Exactly.” Looking down at her tablet again, Jasmine asked, “Do you have any questions for me? About the practice, I mean.”

He stared at her, with her downcast eyes—a woman who had nonchalantly shredded his ego and appeared completely unbothered. Was she devoid of emotions and feelings? What kind of woman was she?

Had Friday night been an act? He wouldn’t have called their time together a connection, exactly, but they’d enjoyed each other out of bed too. Or so he thought. They’d had a funny, flirty conversation at the lounge, he had loved dancing with her, and they had shared a couple of laughs back at her apartment during breaks between their intimate moments.

“No questions,” he replied.

“If you think of some later, you know where to find me. Two doors down, and I usually leave my door open unless I’m in a meeting. As a matter of fact, that’s the norm around here. We have an open-door policy.” She tucked the tablet under her arm. “I’ll send you those documents in a little bit.”

After she left, Maxwell stared at the empty doorway, confused by the exchange. Finally, he sighed and sank into the leather chair behind his desk. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t interested. He wasn’t interested, either. This was good.

Perfect.