“Says the guy who controls the tower, who’s paid off by the guy who owns the Squirrel Tree.”
He looked genuinely annoyed on my behalf. It was nice. I couldn’t remember the last time a stranger had stuck up for me simply on principle. This guy was such a contradiction. Shade Ganavan had oodles of arrogance, oodles of charm, and oodles of something that made me want to kick him in the nuts.
“So?” I prompted.
“I can take care of your ship for you.”
“You? Yourself?” I asked.
He spread his hands. “I’m a man of many talents.”
“There’s no shortage of cockiness, in any case.”
“Oh, there’s nothing short about my—”
I held up my hand. “Women from Sector 12 don’t like hearing that kind of talk.”
He grinned, a slow, sex-on-a-stick smile that made heat spark low in my abdomen. “Then what kind of talk do they like?” he asked.
“Squeaky clean,” I answered, amazed that I kept a straight face while telling an enormous falsehood—in my case, anyway.
He smirked. “You mean boring as hell?”
My lips twitched. The scoundrel was back, and my pulse accelerated in response. I didn’t mind dirty talk, and I would have bet good money that Shade Ganavan did it really well.
“And I thought you were from 8,” he added abruptly.
My smile died. Shit. He had me there.
“How do you know so much about accents?” I asked, suddenly curious to know more about him. And also anxious to change the subject. It never hurt to shift the focus to the other guy, especially when he probably loved talking about himself.
“I travel, working, picking up stuff.” His eyes cruised over the crowded shelves on either side of us.
Mine did, too. But while he looked satisfied with his jumbled collection, the brief glance around us just raised questions in my mind. There was too much stuff here, and a lot of it looked like it hadn’t been touched—and by that, I meant cleaned—in months. It didn’t appear his business was doing very well.
“Picking up things for your shop?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Goods. Odds and ends. Some jobs. You know how it goes.”
My eyes narrowed. That was vague. And the quality of his clothing didn’t match the neglected feel of his shop. He wore rather technical-looking dark cargo pants and a snug-fitting black T-shirt, neither of which looked cheap or worn. His boots were solid and in good condition as well, with soles that looked thick enough to help him kick down the Endeavor’s current starboard door.
Thinking about the thin safety hatch that was left, I was shocked all over again that we’d made it out of today’s terrifying events alive. All things considered, maybe Jaxon was on to something with his Sky Mother beliefs.
In any case, Shade Ganavan was making money somewhere—even if it wasn’t here.
Uh-oh. “Don’t tell me you’re a pirate. Is all this stuff stolen?” I asked, thinking about Flyhole and all its corrupt bandits only a short jump away.
His mouth turned down. “Not a pirate, sugar. More like a space rogue.”
“A space rogue?”
He nodded. “A phenomenal one, at that.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Space Rogue Phenom? Really? Maybe I should call you SRP.”
His dark eyes glittered as though I’d just thrown down a gauntlet, and he was more than ready to pick it up. “Only if you want me to call you RLCA.”
Don’t ask. Don’t ask. “And what’s that?”
“Rosy Lips, Cute Ass.”
I stared at him, my heart going berserk in my chest. He stared back.
His brow suddenly furrowed. “Holy shit, you’re turning bright red.” He looked pissed off again. “Doesn’t anyone ever flirt with you? You married or something?”
He sounded aggravated on all counts, as though he thought it was horrifying that no one ever flirted with me, and even more horrifying that I might be married.
He also seemed concerned that I was so obviously flustered, while at the same time, he was the one who had been completely provoking in the first place. The whole thing just flushed me hotter—and I’m sure turned me redder.
Despite having declined a few offers here and there, I hadn’t felt this aware of male appreciation in more than seven years. Well, there had been Dagger Bently, but scrubbing off his lewd looks and comments with industrial-strength prison soap sure didn’t count.
“No. And no,” I finally answered, my voice sounding as though it grated across sandpaper in my throat.
He watched me for a moment from under lowered brows, and then, thankfully, Shade Ganavan, Space Rogue, let the subject drop.