Can't Get Enough

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She rolled her eyes at him. “Spare me. You think I want to stand around and talk about the office stud all day? It’s impossible not to pick this stuff up. It’s like osmosis.”

He sat up straight, bristling.

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t call me that, thank you,” he found himself saying stiffly.

Can you hear yourself? Now who’s uptight?

“I beg your pardon?”

Her incredulity was clear. But he’d drawn a line in the sand, and he had to stand by it.

“Office stud. I find it offensive. How would you like it if I called you the town bike?”

She surprised him by laughing out loud. “Go ahead, see if I object.”

For a moment he stared at her, taking in the transformation in her face when she laughed. She looked…nice. Approachable. Attractive.

All just a sugarcoating for her inner shrew, he reminded himself. Don’t forget that. Never forget that.

CLAIRE PLUCKED at the neck of her heavy silk shirt, trying to get some air between it and her hot skin. Why hadn’t she picked a cotton shirt this morning? She pictured the litter of clothes all over her bedroom and declined to comment on the grounds that she already knew why: she was a pig, and she needed to do the laundry.

She spared a glance for the office stud opposite. Now that she knew he hated being called that she’d make sure to slip it into as many conversations as possible. See how he liked being pigeonholed.

His face was closed, quiet, but she could feel his vulnerability. She’d shocked him with her revelations about what his exes and flings thought of him, there was no question. She felt a vague guilt at having spilled so many beans on him. For the first time, she questioned some of the stories she’d heard about him, and some of her value judgments. So, he dated a lot. Was that so bad? And then she remembered twenty-three-year-old Fiona from Legal, her heart-shaped face blotched with tears as she explained how Jack had made an excuse for not staying the night in her bed after they’d done it. He’d ended their short romance the next day at lunchtime.

He didn’t deserve sympathy. Fiona deserved sympathy—as well as a good kick in the wazoo for letting herself be suckered in by Mr. Silvertongue.

Claire was considering trying to take a nap when movement caught her eye and she looked up to see Jack shrugging out of his shirt.

“What?” he asked defensively. “You want me to ask permission or something?”

What a jerk.

“You can take it all off for all I care,” she told him stiffly.

He raised an eyebrow, obviously doubting her. “Feel free to take off whatever you want, too,” he said idly, the glint of his eyes giving away the fact that he was mocking her.

She could feel her lips disappearing again and she forced them to behave before he noticed. He was sooooo annoying. She’d truly never met anyone else who could get her so riled so quickly.

What was it about him that got up her nose so much? She studied him through her eyelashes, trying to work it out, and found her gaze drawn to the broad expanse of hairy chest he’d just exposed. All that huntin’-shootin’-fishin’ obviously agreed with him because he was in pretty good shape, his pecs nicely defined, his stomach flat, the hint of strong abdominal muscles showing as he breathed. She knew from experience how tough it was to get lean enough to see those ab muscles, and she reassessed her notion of his sybaritic lifestyle. Okay, maybe he wasn’t out wining and dining every night. Every second night, probably. He’d need to, just to fit in all his office romances.