Good to see hostility is her norm. At least I know what to expect. “So you don’t like dogs?” I ask. “That explains a lot.”
“Of course I like dogs. I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t.” She scrambles up to a seated position and stares at me. I love that not once does she bring a hand to her hair to see if it’s a mess or straighten her shirt that’s fallen off her shoulder like most women I know would. “Come on, Lula,” she says to her dog as she starts to walk away. When I don’t budge, she stops and gives a dramatic huff. “What do you want? What are you doing here?”
“You left this at my office the other day.” I hold out her papers to her. Standing slowly, she stares at them for a beat as if she doesn’t trust me before grabbing and folding them without looking at what they are.
“These were old. My check got lost in the mail,” she mumbles as her cheeks burn red and she averts her eyes from mine.
She’s embarrassed. The late notice. Shit . . . I just used it as a means to find her. I didn’t mean for her to feel humiliated.
“Happened to me last year,” I lie. Feeling like an ass, I stare at her until she looks back to me so I can give her a soft smile. She shifts her feet and then those eyelashes flutter up so she can meet my eyes.
Christ is she gorgeous. How did I miss that the other day? Hazel eyes. Perfect complexion. A dusting of freckles on her nose that is somehow sexy on her. And lips . . . damn those lips.
For that split second, I see the softer side of Harlow. The tough girl overshadowed by her own vulnerability. And just as quickly as it came, she tucks it away again and the fire and brimstone are back full force.
“Thanks, you can leave now.” A lift of her eyebrows. A challenge issued in her smirk.
“Are you always this pleasant when someone goes out of their way to return your stuff?”
Her sigh is heavy but it does such wonderful things to her tits beneath her tank top that I have to remind myself not to look. “I’ll repeat myself. . . go away.”
“Why?” My hand is still busy scratching Lula between the ears. At least one of the females I’m dealing with right now likes me.
“Why? How about because your arrogant assumption that I was your dog walker made me late for my job interview? And that tardiness lost me the interview altogether on a job I really needed. How about that for being enough of a reason?”
“You should thank me for that.”
“What?” I’m prepared for it when her hands fly to her hips and imaginary smoke billows out her ears. “Like I said, you think way too much of yourself.”
Is it a bad thing that I find her sexy when she’s angry? Because buttons are something I definitely love to push. Certain ones in particular.
“Like I said, you should thank me. I saved you from definite harassment.”
“Saved me?” She angles her head and glares. “So, what? I could get it from you instead?”
“Careful,” I warn, standing up when Lula decides she’s tired and plops on the grass in the space between us. “I don’t harass. I flirt. I’m forward. But I don’t touch when it’s not consensual, and I never use intimidation to get what I want. Now that prick you were going to interview with? Jerry . . . let’s just say he’s not as considerate. I’ve seen him in action more times than I care to count and have called him on it.”
“Great to know,” she says but I can tell by her expression that she doesn’t believe me.
“So the way I see it, you owe me one.”
“I don’t owe you shit.” Her hands fist.
“Whoa! Down girl!” I hold my free hand up in mock surrender, the other one still holding the box. “I was just teasing.”
She looks back to the house for a beat and then back at me. “Why are you here?”
I hold her eyes and try to figure out why she intrigues me so much when normally, any woman who gives me this much grief would lead me to move onto the next one.
But what am I moving on from when I don’t want anything from her? Hell, I never even intended to drive here and talk to her.
And yet here I am.
“Here.” I thrust the box out to her like some fumbling teenager not sure what to do when their mother tells them to get a girl flowers.
Harlow looks down at the box and then back up to me. “What’s that?”
“Your shoes.” I bite back my smile when she eyes me cautiously.
“My shoes?”
“I had them fixed. It was the least I could do since Smudge was part of the reason they broke.” She shifts on her hip as if she’s wondering if she wants to accept them or not, but after a beat takes the box and holds it under her arm. “It wouldn’t kill you to say thank you.”
“And that’s where this conversation will end.” She shakes her head and starts to walk away.
“Wait! What is it that you do?”
She pauses and angles her head to the side as she debates whether she wants to respond or not. I half expect the flirty twirl of the finger in the hair and bat of her lashes as she tells me she’s a model, a move so many other women perfect.
Then again, Harlow Nicks is nothing like any other woman I’ve met before so unpredictability suits her just fine.
“What do you mean?”