her bitterly. “Women think they want some sweet, romantic guy to sweep them off their feet and treat them like a princess.”
“I suppose you know better?” she asks sarcastically.
“Some women do want that. But not you, Poppy Woodstock,” I tell her in a harsh whisper as a couple walks through the gallery. Thankfully, they catch the vibe in the room and continue on their merry way. “You’d walk all over a guy like that. You need someone strong enough to stand up to you and put up with your mouth. Someone who won’t bat an eye when you do something crazy, running off half-cocked when you don’t even know the whole story. Hell, when you don’t even know half of it.”
“And you think that’s you? The rough, tough, bad boy who’s going to give me what I need.” There’s hope in her voice, a subliminal admission of the truth in my words. She wants a partner, and in me, she recognizes someone strong enough to be that for her.
But I can’t let that hope live. Not for either of us.
“No. I’m going to get your laptop back . . . and then ditch you.”
The truth hurts me more than it hurts her, but my reaction is visceral and hidden, a skill I learned long ago. Poppy reacts like I punched her in the heart, her face going red, her eyes lighting with flames of anger, and her hands balling at her side. I consider the odds of her hitting me given her previous attack, but I suspect she’s mostly a verbal warrior, so I don’t give her a chance to fire back with words that won’t be true.
While she’s still prepping her argument, I finish with another bitter dose of truth serum. “And I’ll move on, and you’ll be glad you dodged this bullet.”
I thump my chest with a palm, hurting myself at the same time. Because I fucking hate it, hate myself for what I’ve become. Not a man but a bullet aimed and fired by the people who hire me. Eventually, I’ll likely die by their hand too.
For her own good, Poppy doesn’t need to be mixed up with me.
She inhales sharply, holding my gaze while she holds her breath.
“Breathe, Pops. You’re trying to look mad, but all you’re doing is pushing your tits all up in my face.” I trace the line of her cleavage with my eyes, licking my lips with hunger for something I know I’ll never taste.
She’s a connection I can’t have, can’t risk.
Her chest deflates with a sigh of defeat. “I really was trying to give you a compliment. About your knowing all about the art stuff.” She waves her hand around the gallery we’re in. “I didn’t mean to start a fight. Or whatever this is.”
“A conversation,” I tell her sadly, though now that I’ve won, I try to soften her loss with a small dose of humor. “The truth. A fight is fists and blood. And so far, neither of us is bleeding.” I hold my hands out to show that they’re clean despite knowing that invisible stains mar my entire soul.
“Yet,” she threatens with a sly smirk, though I can tell she’s forcing herself to play along. “You never know.”
She moves on to the next painting, and for some reason, I feel like as hard as I was, as hurtful as I was . . . it’s somehow made her resolve even stronger.
What do I have to do to convince this woman that I’m the worst thing to ever happen to her life?
A few minutes later, I see JP in the next room. He doesn’t acknowledge me, but I know he’s aware that I’m here.
“Poppy,” I tell her quietly, “hit the bathroom for a minute. Down this hall, second door. Give me five.”
She looks at me in surprise. “What?”
“Don’t argue. Do what I say, remember?” I growl. “For your own damn good.”
She wants to argue, I know she does. I can see the words on her tongue, but at the serious look on my face, she thinks better of it and struts down the hall. I don’t have time to enjoy the show of her hips swaying this time. I’ve got work to do.
I enter the next room, part of the university’s permanent collection, the highlight of which is a collection of landscapes by an artist who grew up in the area. It’s a bit of a lens back in time to years when cows roamed in fields that now