“Your first husband wants custody of the cat and all the Anne Rice books you’ve collected over the years?”
“Ha,” she mocked. “A she’s wearing all black and must therefore be the Mistress of Dark snark. I lived in Paris for three years. Fifty shades of black is all the rage. Seriously, anything with the hint of color makes you stand out like a sore-American-tourist-thumb.”
“I didn’t say I took exception to anything you’re wearing—well, aside from the boots,” he told her. “It’s not exactly fair they’re above the knee.”
She shrugged. “It is twenty-five degrees outside. And my mother has this incredibly disturbing premonition of me dying from pneumonia, particularly because I’m addicted to iced coffee even in wintertime. Hence the mass quantity of knits she sends my way.”
Raising her hands in the air, she showed off ill-fitting gloves.
Continuing, she said, “Note the three middle fingers are about an inch too long, and the thumbs and pinkies are about a quarter of an inch too short, so it takes some effort to stretch them. No physical deformities, I promise.” She reached for a straw and managed to deftly divest it of the paper sheath. “I’m convinced she uses a sea turtle for a hand model. Swear to God, every single pair is sized this way.”
Tague chuckled again. L.L. Branson wore quirky well. “So, is Chip handling your divorce or—”
“Patents,” she quickly said. “I’ve never been married and have no prospects currently, which is perfectly fine, believe me. My plate runneth over with my career, so don’t sweat bullets or anything about one date.”
“I’ll try to keep my massive male ego in check.”
“I’d appreciate that.” She smirked again.
The barista delivered their drinks and L.L. stabbed her straw into the small hole. She sipped deeply. Sighed dramatically. “Ah, bliss.” She handed Tague a wrap for his coffee. “Careful there. Contents are hot, I see. I mean, read.” She eyed the warning on his cup, while the corner of her mouth jumped at her little innuendo. Both the infectious smile and the sexy flirtation drove him wild.
“You have a charming sense of humor,” he told her, warming to her as every tantalizing second passed.
“And you apparently don’t suffer the curse of Florida Mom sending a new pair of gloves every other week.” She glanced down at his long, tapered fingers. “Beautiful hands, by the way.”
Ignoring the heat that flared in his gut at thoughts of what he’d like to do with his hands on her body, Tague said, “My Hamptons mother would send Armani.”
“I figured as much.” Her gaze lifted. Behind the rose-lens-and-gold-rimmed sunglasses, she eyed him unabashedly. “Nice overcoat. I like the silver silk tie. Navy suit. Excellent complement to your coloring. Did one or all of your exes shop for you?”
“I can manage on my own.”
“Hmm.”
“Hmm?” His brow crooked.
“Well, you’ve successfully matched your clothes to set off your midnight-blue eyes and all that strategically tousled onyx hair. Most men I know aren’t that thoughtful with their appearance—unless there’s a woman or a butler dressing them. Are you sure you’re even a lawyer? I’ve never met one with hair that dusted the collar of his impeccably pressed shirt.”
“Lawyer by generation, as it were.”
“Ah. Gotcha.” She sipped her latte, then added, “My condolences.”
“I happen to like what I do.”
“Then strike the witness’s last comment from the deposition.”
They headed toward the exit.
“By the way,” he used her phrasing, his amusement warring with unadulterated lust. “I’ve never been married, either.”
“Good to know.”
Pushing the door open for her to precede him, Tague took the opportunity presented to check out her ass.
Damn! Foiled again.
Her leather jacket covered her butt. However, she did have a provocative sway to her shapely hips as she stepped into the brisk weather.
After stealing a few seconds of mile-long legs he’d kill to see bare, Tague asked, “What, exactly, do you do for a living, L.L.?”