Page 27 of Bitter’s Sweet

“Cute.”

“Thank you.”

“Wasn’t a compliment.”

“Miss Mercy already tried that. I’m taking it as one anyway.”

His gaze drops to my mouth again.

“Dangerous habit,” he murmurs.

“What is?”

“Taking things from me.”

The room seems smaller than it did a second ago.

I look down at my cup, then back up at him. “It’s just moonshine cider.”

“For now.”

My stomach flips, which is inconvenient and rude.

Bitter pushes away from the sideboard and steps closer, not enough to crowd me, but enough that I can smell him again. Cedar. Smoke. Leather. Something warm and unmistakably male underneath. His body is big without trying to make a show of it. Mine notices in a way my brain finds deeply unhelpful.

“You should know something, Sweet.”

“That sounds ominous too.”

“I don’t do relationships.”

I wait.

He watches me like he expects disappointment, maybe argument. Maybe he is used to women hearing that and deciding they can be the exception if they are pretty enough, patient enough, wounded enough.

I ain’t patient enough for that.

He continues. “I don’t do dates. I don’t do promises. I don’t do soft little morning-after conversations about what it meant. I like women. I like sex. That’s where it starts and ends.”

Well.

The red flag has introduced itself by name, filed paperwork, and taken a seat.

I scrunch up my nose.

Bitter frowns. “What?”

“No thanks.”

His face goes so blank I almost laugh.

“No thanks?” he repeats.

I slide off the arm of the chair and set my cup on the sideboard. “Yes. No thanks.”

“I didn’t offer yet.”

“You were warming up.”