I huff. “Hardly.”
But he’s right, mostly, and he knows it, the bastard.
His grin grows smug around the edges. “Right. Well, in any event, there’s no shame in letting yourself be charmed when a perfectly delightful person is making an effort to charm you.”
“Why?” I ask, my eyes narrowing.
“Why what?”
“Why do you need to charm everyone? Is it a power thing?”
His brow furrows. “A power thing?” He laughs, bemused. “I…don’t know how to respond to that. Last time I checked, being nice isn’t a diabolical act.”
“No, it isn’t,” I admit. “But needing to be the most liked, the most adorable, the favorite, hints at some sort of underlying pathology.” I tap my chin, pretending I haven’t already mapped out an extensive list of Nick’s possible psychological weaknesses. “Perhaps a deep-seated insecurity that manifests as a compulsive need to prove no one can resist your charms?”
He scowls, and his lips part, but I push on before he can speak. “Or a secret fear of rejection, perhaps? As the youngest of three boys, all born in quick succession, perhaps you didn’t feel you received enough of your mother’s attention as a child, and now you crave the world’s love in order to soothe that primal wound?”
His tongue slips out to dampen his lips before he smiles again—a harder grin this time.
But to my surprise, he doesn’t make a joke or change the subject.
“Actually, I think it’s about criticism,” he says. “I’ve never been the best with it. I tend to take it all a little too personally.”
I nod. “And someone proving immune to your charm feels like a personal critique?”
“In some ways.” His lips hook up on one side. “I’m sure you can relate.”
I snort. “Can I?”
“I think you can.” In a softer voice, he adds, “And just to spare you any further contortions, I’m not going to look or say a word about all…” He clears his throat meaningfully. “That. You’re my partner, and I don’t ogle my partners, no matter how lovely their dresses or their…parts.”
By the time he’s finished, I’m certain my face is as red as my dress, but strangely, I find I’m…amused. As I sit back in my seat, resting my hands in my lap, I can’t help but laugh.
“What’s funny?” he asks, but he’s smiling, too. One of his kind, genuine, not-smug-or-irritating smiles that is, admittedly, quite charming.
“I’m not used to people reading me so well. Or so quickly.” I lift one shoulder and let it fall. “I thought I was being subtle.”
“You were,” he says. “I’m just…observant.”
I arch a brow. “I’m impressed.”
“I would have thought you’d be annoyed.”
“Me, too,” I admit. “But we’re on the same team. It’s nice to know my partner is good at reading people.” I wrinkle my nose. “And you did basically just admit you noticed the dress and everything in it, so…”
He leans forward, his elbows braced on his knees. “And that pleases you? That I noticed?”
“I’m just used to people noticing. That’s all.”
“To men noticing,” he corrects.
“To people,” I insist. “If boobs are out for show and tell, most people will take a look at them. That’s typical human behavior, and it’s troubling when people don’t behave the way you expect them to.”
“Troubling in what way?” he presses.
“Like…people who don’t laugh at the funny parts in movies,” I add. “That’s odd. Suspicious. It sets off alarm bells in the people around them.”
His eyes bore into mine, making me feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with the amount of my cleavage currently on offer. “Is that why you learned to make yourself laugh when everyone else did?”
My jaw drops, and my next breath gets stuck in my throat for a moment before I shake my head with a huff. “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t like your powers of observation. At all.”
He bites his bottom lip, but the smile he’s holding at bay bursts through. “No, sorry, don’t give me credit for that one. I have to confess—Sabrina ratted you out. We were watching something ridiculous in the theater a few weeks ago, and Andrew wasn’t laughing. She said it reminded her of when you were little, how you forced yourself to laugh during movie night so your nanny would stop threatening to take you to a psychiatrist.”
“Nanny Veronica. She thought I was depressed.” I roll my eyes. “But I just didn’t share her sense of humor. That pet detective movie isn’t funny. Neither is Drop Dead Fred. Or Caddyshack.”
Nick presses a hand to his chest. “Caddyshack is a classic. You’ve wounded my Chevy Chase-loving heart. And right when we were getting along so well, too.”
I snort. “We were not.”
“Were, too,” he counters, reaching out to squeeze my bare knee only to flinch away with a scowl. “Your skin is like ice.”
“It’s winter. And you insisted I dress to seduce drug lords in the tropics.”