Probably his honest sense of shameless evil. I have to remember that.
Nothing Roland Osprey does is serious unless it’s related to business.
He’s been poking and prodding at me since day one, all for his own warped amusement.
Anything he does now is just more of that crap.
For a second, I steel myself in the mirror, eyes on my reflection.
Let’s go. Move. March out there.
Then read him the riot act for actually looking when I told him not to.
I brush my hair back in tumbled waves and skip the makeup—Louisiana girl or not, I’d sweat it off in a runny mess by noon—and lift my chin.
I set out with my eyes frozen over.
Only, I’m met with a knowing panther look that drops on me like hot caramel, dripping down my body and stealing my tongue before I can even snap at him.
“So,” Roland says, rolling it off his tongue until that one little word sounds obscene. “What’s my punishment for peeping?”
No words. None.
This man makes my blood boil.
He leaves me torn between punching him smack in the jaw and telling him to go back to hell—or else doing something so rotten I’m sure it means jail time.
I’m paralyzed with choices.
Finally, my hand decides for me.
I square my jaw, stretch up on my toes, and—while he locks up, staring at me with wide eyes—grasp a fistful of his hair, and yank.
I’m not trying to make him bald or anything.
I just want to make a point.
But I’m not expecting the way his breath catches.
The way he goes stock-still with a vibrant intensity, and a faint, rough sound catches in the back of his throat. Something that sounds like pleasure.
His eyes close, the expression on his face searing into my head—until I realize what I’m doing and just how insane he’s made me.
Snatching my hand back, I retreat a step, struggling to catch my breath.
Roland’s eyes drift open slowly, lingering in a slow, searching burn.
“Interesting. I had no idea you were so kinky, Miss Landry,” he whispers.
Oh.
Oh, frick.
I’ve done it now.
If I open my mouth, nothing’s coming out but a mess of mushy half-syllables and sailor-worthy curses.
So I don’t say anything.
I just spin around and nearly run away from him, stopping only to grab my purse and a little pair of cork wedge sandals before I flee for the door.
I don’t get far.
Roland, my self-appointed destroyer, is a hot and heavy presence in my wake.
* * *
I manage to calm down over brunch at a little Mexican bistro on the corner, keeping the conversation light over huevos rancheros.
I must sigh a dozen times when Roland Asshat refuses to tell me where we’re going. He just keeps baiting me endlessly.
His father was right. He is a brat.
But the brat has piqued my curiosity more than ever today in the best and worst ways. Though not so much that I can’t enjoy the casual stroll through Austin.
It’s such a green city, modern sleekness wed to old-school charm. Everything around me feels like it’s designed with an artistic flair.
Walking through this city feels like wandering through a mural.
I don’t care if I’m derailing the plans when I spot a trolley and demand a ride. They remind me of home, the ones in New Orleans.
Roland gives me a look that’s equally amused and fond.
I beam like the sun when he indulges me.
We break into a jog to catch the trolley on its next stop.
It’s standing room only on the little car. We barely hop on in time before it pulls away again.
I’m laughing as I jostle my way through the crowd and find a pole to cling to near a window, looking out as the streets roll by.
I feel more than see Roland follow me.
Then one large hand settles on the pole above my head, his warmth pressed in close by the crowd.
Big men have their advantages. His body forms a wall, shielding me from the strangers on the train.
I want to look at him.
I want to eye-lick him so much, but I know better.
All it does is make me so much more aware of him so close, his body almost against mine, dangerously close to touching.
And if that happens, I’m smithereens.
I make myself speak to break the awkward silence.
“There’s an old trolley system in New Orleans,” I say, bracing my feet against the familiar sway of the car. The soft patter of the tracks underneath brings back memories. “When my parents were still together, they’d take me to wander around the French Quarter, the Riverwalk, almost every Sunday. We’d go see street musicians. Jazz, blues, funk, and old-school rock and roll. But my favorite part was the trolley. Dad would lift me up high on his shoulders, and we’d ride around for hours before I finally dozed off and they took me home.”
I don’t expect my throat to tighten or stinging nostrils.