“Smart-ass.”
His eyebrow arched, pleased, and he leaned across her to pick up a score. A row of inky dots circled his bicep, right below the sleeve of his T-shirt. The sight of them made Keira shiver in warning. They looked like the mark she’d seen on his wrist the day before—unusual, somehow. Like they were under his skin. Like they’d come from inside him, instead of being tattooed on.
Walker stacked the scores, tapping them against the floor and snapping Keira out of her uneasy reverie. She was suddenly all too aware that she’d been staring.
“Do you come in here just to mess up the music, or what?” he asked.
His arm brushed against hers and the hair on the back of Keira’s neck stood up. “I’m pretty sure I know the filing system at least as well as you do,” she countered. Behind them, she could hear Susan arguing with Mr. Palmer about whether or not she had to sign two copies of the receipt.
Walker smirked at her. “Maybe. Wanna bet?”
Keira stared back at him, her competitive streak glowing inside her. “Sure.”
“Fine. Loser buys coffee,” he said.
Oh, hell. Is this just some way to ask me out?
There was a gleam in his eye that dared her to refuse.
“I don’t date,” she said, reaching for her bag. Even as the words came out of her mouth, she hated them. It sounded so final, but she’d never had trouble saying it to anyone else who’d asked her out.
“It’s not a date,” he said firmly. His full lips twitched like he was trying not to smile. “It’s a bet. But I’m flattered that you think of me that way. Unless you’re actually worried you might lose?”
His confidence made her want to stomp her foot like a frustrated kid.
“Fine. Movie scores—how are they filed?” she practically spat the question at him.
“Alphabetically,” he said.
Triumph spread through her, sweet and forbidden.
“Ha! Wrong. They’re—”
“By composer,” he interrupted. “Alphabetically by composer. Since the music’s the most important part of the movie, the composer’s more important than the title.”
“Mr. Palmer’s cinematic hierarchy.” Keira grimaced. Walker was right. “It’s your turn, then.”
“Raffi.” He said simply.
She wrinkled her nose. “Like—the children’s music guy?”
“Yep.” Walker leaned his head back against the shelves, eyeing her. Waiting.
It had to be a trick. Did he have a secret last name or something? Unless Walker assumed she’d leap to that sort of conclusion—that she was the sort of person who automatically overcomplicated everything.
Still, her only guess was the obvious. “Alphabetical. With the R’s.”
“Nope. It’s not here at all.” He smiled at her, victorious. “Didn’t you know? Mr. Palmer—”
“Hates kids,” she finished with a groan, thinking of the NO UNATTENDED CHILDREN ALLOWED! sign posted on the front door.
“Keira?” Susan called from the front of the store. “Are you ready?”
Mr. Palmer shushed her from his perch behind the counter.
“Uh, almost,” Keira called as quietly as she could.
“Miss Brannon!” Mr. Palmer protested. “Really! I’m surprised at you. This isn’t some sort of student union. Please keep it down.”
“Fine,” Susan huffed. “I’ll wait for you outside, Keira.”
Susan was the one who’d been dying to meet Walker, but she’d never see him back here behind the instrument-case display. Now Keira’d gotten herself roped into having coffee with him, and Susan had missed the whole thing.
I should have known this wouldn’t go well. I should have just gone home to practice. Damn!
Walker stared at her intently. His eyes met hers and the last of his teasing bravado slipped off his face. He stood up, his body a few inches too close to hers, but Keira didn’t back away. She had to tilt her head up to see his face. It made her want to buy a pair of high heels, so they’d be even again.
“I expect you to make good on our wager, Keira Brannon.” His gaze was dangerous and delicious at the same time. “Did you realize that your eyes are exactly the color of espresso?” he asked slowly, reaching out a careful finger to trace the hollow curve below her eye.
There didn’t seem to be any air left for her to breathe. “I don’t drink coffee,” she managed to choke out. “And I don’t go out with guys whose last names I don’t even know.”
“Andover.” His hand lingered by her face. “It’s Walker Andover. And I don’t mind that you don’t like coffee. There must be something you want?” The curve of his lips said that he intended every bit of the double meaning in his words.
“Tea,” she whispered. “And that’s all.”