Page 5 of Rebel Moon
“The ice queen has a sister?” Knox asked, his eyes on his IPA.
“Ice queens have sisters. Elsa, for example,” I said, noticing wine had already been poured into a glass. Thank goodness. No one should face Knox Hartley without a little booze to soften his annoying personality.
“I have no idea who that is,” Knox said.
“Of course you don’t.”
“Why’s that?” His gaze moved lazily from his drink to my face.
“Because it’s a happy kid’s film and that’s not exactly on brand for you.”
“Do you know what I hate?”
“So many things?”
One dark brow raised as he drawled, “I hate it when people say ‘on brand’ this or ‘so your brand’ that. I know you love to think about life in terms of a brand, but regular folks think it’s pretentious.”
“The way I think has made you a rich man,” I said.
“Has it?” Knox leaned closer, speaking right into my ear, close enough I could feel his breath on my cheek. “Or was it the talent of the men at this table? Without us, you got no one to brand with that giant M of yours.”
“What does that even mean?” God, I loathed this man.
“I’m saying you’ve tried to brand us all with the unmistakable Madeleine font.”
“I don’t have a font.”
“Oh, you sure do. I’m guessing it’s a cold one. All straight lines and sharp corners. Real expensive-looking. The kind that costs a fortune to look like it didn’t cost anything at all.”
My stomach clenched. He wasn’t wrong, the jerk. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be a compliment.”
I rested my cheek in my hand, watching him for a moment, noticing how green his eyes looked under the lights and the thin scar under his right cheekbone. I’d often wondered how he got it but didn’t want to ask anyone for fear they’d think there was anything remotely interesting to me about this man.
“You’ve clearly given my font a lot of thought, Hartley. I’d think you were too busy spending all the money I made you to think much about my font or spirit animal or anything else about me. But let me return the favor. Your font? Easy. Hand-lettered on a bar napkin and impossible to read.”
That actually caused him to chuckle. When he smiled or laughed, his whole face changed. He looked younger, for one thing. Not so embattled. “Not bad, Price. What’s my spirit animal?”
“You don’t want me to answer that.”
“Oh, but I do,” Knox said.
“Fine. You asked for it. A mule. Stubborn to the bone. Smarter than it lets on. Digs its heels in the second anyone tries to lead it somewhere sensible, then acts wounded when it gets called difficult.”
“Are you calling me smart?”
“Smart’s what you took out of that?” I asked, unable to keep the corners of my mouth lifting in amusement.
“Might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Knox said, mimicking my earlier comment. “I know yours.”
“Do tell,” I said.
“A cat,” he said, without missing a beat. “One of those fancy ones. Sits up high where it can see the whole room, won’t come when it’s called, and lets you think you’re in charge right up until it wants something. And nobody ever gets to know where it goes at night.” He lifted a brow, and I swear it was almost flirty.
Warmth spread along my whole left side, from shoulder to knee. Why? Why indeed? Knox Hartley might be the thorn in my side, but he was sexy too. I’d had more than one dream about the man over the years. I hated my subconscious for it too. At the moment, I could feel the muscles in his thighs and, occasionally, when his side brushed my side, the strength of his arms and torso. He was looking good too, dressed in dark jeans and a tight black sweater. No black signature hat for once.
I was saved from having to answer by a woman emerging from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel tucked into her apron. She was striking in an effortless way I immediately envied: long brown hair loose past her shoulders, warm brown eyes, a scatter of rings on her fingers, and a bohemian looseness to the way she moved, like she’d never once worried about how anyone saw her. She stopped at the head of the table near Jack and Ivy and lifted her voice just enough to gather us.
