Love the One You're With (Sex, Love & Stiletto 2)

“I don’t,” he said simply. “I live in midtown.”

Grace’s brow furrowed. “Then what the hell are you doing catching a cab all the way down here at eight in the morning?”

His eyes flicked up then, locking with hers and holding. His gaze wasn’t smug per se, but it was expectant, as though waiting for her to put something together …

“Oh!” she said. “Oh. That.”

He smiled but didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.

“Let me rephrase,” she said, not really sure why she was pushing. “If Tribeca is so family-friendly, why are you doing the walk of shame out of here?”

“Seems you’re not the only single woman lurking amid the day care set.”

Grace narrowed her eyes. “What makes you think I’m single?”

He typed a message on his phone before responding, then slid the phone back into his pocket and angled his body to face hers.

“You really want to know?” he asked.

No. She absolutely did not want to hear that her pathetic loser-ness was visible. “Yes,” she replied.

“The spark,” he said in a bored voice.

“The spark,” she repeated.

“Between us. You felt it,” he said, his eyes cutting to hers. “Women in a happy relationship don’t give off a spark like that.”

And damned if her stomach didn’t give a little flip. And double damn if she didn’t know exactly what spark he was talking about.

She did feel it.

But she could just as easily ignore it.

“Happens all the time when I’m annoyed,” she said, keeping her voice placid and bored.

He grinned again. “And that,” he said, pointing a finger at her, “that prickliness—that’s how I know you’re not just single, but recently single.”

Stab.

Grace folded her arms across her chest. “Well, don’t you just have me all figured out.”

He leaned his head back on the seat as though bored. “Let’s see … you’re late twenties, I’m guessing twenty-eight, give or take, but you take care of yourself. Probably yoga, because you read in some magazine that it’s good for your mind and body, and you think balance is pretty much the holy grail. You love your job, mainly because it allows you to wear tight skirts and high heels, although you have family money that supplements your income, which is why said skirt and high heels are designer instead of off the rack. The hair color’s natural, the lip color’s not, and the only reason you didn’t go flying out of the car when I climbed in here with you is because you’re desperate to get to your oh-so-important job.”

He turned his head to meet her murderous gaze and gave a wide grin. “How’d I do?”

“I’m twenty-nine,” was all she said in reply, narrowing her eyes slightly. “But not bad.”

And then, because he’d been so damn right about her—scarily right—Grace gave him her best ice-princess smile. The one that ensured drunk guys in bars kept their distance, and that catty women didn’t dare gossip about anyone in Grace’s circle of friends.

But this guy? This guy didn’t seem to interpret her special smile for what it was. Because if anything, his dark brown gaze grew warmer.

No. It grew downright hot.

And suddenly Grace realized that she was playing it all wrong with this guy. Even though she shouldn’t be playing at all.

This guy didn’t need ice from her—he could melt it with that perfect grin and won’t-you-come-to-my-bed eyes. No, this one deserved fire.

Fire was something Grace Brighton had always been a little short on.