Shame the Devil (Portland Devils #3) - Rosalind James Page 0,38

make a man feel good. So you know.”

She could feel the hot blood rising into her chest, her throat, her cheeks. He touched one of them, just a bare brush of fingertips, where she could feel that red flag of shame burning, and his voice was gentle when he said, “Guys say a lot of stupid stuff when they lose a woman. And I’m sorry, but he was blind, because you know how to dress, if that means you know how to look good. Which is why I know he was lying.”

“Except that he was right. I don’t usually … I don’t ever …” She had a few tears here. Oh, this was great. This was wonderful. She grabbed her cocktail napkin, dabbed at her eyes, and then had to blow her nose. Even better.

“He said something else, too,” Kris said. “Go on and tell me the worst stuff. I’m nobody you have to care about. Just a guy in a bar.”

“I’ll cry again, if I do.”

“So what? I’ll block the view.”

“You have … pretty good shoulders,” she said, trying to laugh. “So I guess you could do it.”

“Now, see?” he said. “You already made me feel good. What else?”

She sighed. “Right. I’m going to say it. I’m fun naked, but I look fat in clothes.” It didn’t actually make her cry. Huh.

“OK,” he said. “First? The guy’s a jerk. Who says that? How long did you go out with him?”

Now, she did tear up some. “Four years. Without a ring or a promise or anything at all. There go my best years. What an idiot.”

“Right. Guy’s a jerk and a fool. You don’t look fat in clothes. You look great in clothes.”

“I usually …” She took a breath. “Wear them, uh, looser. For work. Or anytime. I don’t want to look …” Her face was burning now. “I try to be careful. How I look. So he was probably right.”

He’d turned all the way toward her. “You look pretty,” he told her. “And that’s all. Looking the way you’re thinking, though? Too obvious, is that the idea?” At her nod, he said, “That’s what you wear, but it’s how you wear it, too. Your attitude, where a woman goes past confident and puts it out there. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I’m guessing that’s never going to be you. You should go on and wear the sweater, or the skirt, or whatever it is. Go on and feel confident about it, too. You aren’t going to go too far. Not possible, from what I’ve seen. And yeah, a guy’s going to think you look hot, because he’s a guy. He might even try to do something about it. That’s not a bad thing. That’s your superpower. You walk in knowing that. You walk in owning that. Though you could have to practice shooting them down. Come to think of it, though, you did just fine with me on that one, so maybe not.”

“Yeah?” She wiped her eyes one last time, took another sip of hot chocolate, sighed, and said, “Then you know what? I want some whiskey in this.” And watched his smile bloom.

13

An Alternative Destination

For a guy who wasn’t going to get laid, he sure was enjoying this.

Well, right up until the bartender had poured a shot of Jack Daniels into her hot chocolate, and she’d said, “So tell me about the bad mood. You made me feel better. What can I do for you?” And wasn’t even flirting when she said it.

The boyfriend was right, and he was wrong, because when she did flirt, she didn’t seem to know she was doing it, and that made it so hot.

He said, “What color do you call those eyes?”

“Oh.” She looked a little flustered. Her hand went to her hair, then touched her curvy mouth, the upper lip with that deep indentation, the lower one so plump and full, you wanted to take a bite out of it, and he thought, Oh, yeah, baby. There she was again, flirting without knowing it, and he wanted to kiss her. Just lean forward and … do it. Gently.

He didn’t, of course, and she said, “I usually put ‘brown.’ Amber, I guess.”

“Gold,” he said. “Definitely gold. Don’t sell yourself short.”

“If you know,” she said, “why are you asking?” He grinned, and she did, too, and then she said, “Going to tell me about the problem?” Sounding sassy now. Getting her confidence back.

“It’s going to be one of those stupid