I thought of her long, slim legs, given to her by God and genetics. “She’s pretty,” I said self-pityingly.
“Not anymore,” Nick replied.
“She’s better-looking than me,” I said while our waitress put down our sandwiches. “Thinner. Obviously. I mean, Josh is better-looking than me. Everyone always wondered how I got such a good-looking guy. They all wondered what he was doing with me. I should have known.”
Nick took a bite of his sandwich. “You done?” he asked.
I looked down at the gooey cheese on my plate. Fuck, it looked delicious. I shouldn’t eat it. “Done what?”
“Pissing on yourself,” he said. “Whining.”
I looked up and froze, staring at him. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he said. “You want to feel better, you should fuck someone. It’ll do a better job than wasting time running yourself down like that.”
For a second I couldn’t say anything. Then I found my voice. “Did you just say I should fuck someone?”
“You heard me. You should,” he said. “Hard. Get someone to fuck you until you can’t stand up.” His gaze went up and down me again, seeming to see through my clothes. “I’m gonna guess Bank Boy never fucked you like that.”
No. Josh had never fucked me like that. However Nick meant when he looked at me just that way… No. Another shiver happened low in my belly.
I had to be rational here. And I didn’t even know this guy.
“I can’t—” I stuttered. “I can’t believe you just said that. You’re an asshole.”
“That right there.” He pointed at me, at my face. He wore two bracelets on his wrist, a leather one and a woven one that looked old and worn. Something significant. I wondered what it was. “That expression. That’s the one you didn’t have when you saw your boyfriend fucking another woman. I bet Bank Boy never saw that expression at all.”
I had no idea what my expression was, but I had to guess furious. Because that was how I suddenly felt. Fuck him and his stupid insights, anyway. “Fine,” I said, trying to piss him off in return. “I should just fuck someone. Are you volunteering?”
For a second, he actually considered it, his gaze taking me in, up and down. My overalls and sweater, my messy hair. My stomach went into freefall. Why had I said that? Because he was hot, and I’d assumed it wouldn’t happen? Or because I assumed it would? If he said no, or if he said yes—either was equally terrifying.
But Nick shook his head. “You’re not the kind of woman I fuck,” he said.
Now I was both offended and relieved at the same time. “Why not?” I asked.
“You’re nice. I’m too dirty for you.”
No one likes a girl who makes a fuss, my mother said in my head. Gina wasn’t nice. Gina was sexy. Dirty, maybe. Unlike me. Unlike the way I was now.
There were reasons I was like this. Being sexy and dirty, being that girl—it led nowhere. It was pointless. Worse, it led to pain and disappointment. No, even for Nick Mason and his stupid-gorgeous face and his stupid-hot body, I wasn’t going down that road ever again.
But suddenly I was purely, deeply enraged. I wanted to stand up, flip the table through the plate glass window, and scream that I was not nice.
I didn’t do that, of course. I sat with my hands gripping the table edge so hard my knuckles were white. If Nick noticed, he didn’t let on. “Well, you’re not my type either,” I snapped. “I like guys with a little politeness and self-respect. I also like guys who do laundry every once in a while.”
He put a hand over his heart. “You’re hurting me,” he said. “What are you, seventy? You look twenty-five at most. Loosen up, have some orgasms. You’re missing out.”
“You don’t know what I’m missing.”
“Yeah, redhead, I kind of do.”
Fuck. He was so calm. And he had sexy fucking arms. Sexy everything. I kept my voice snappish to keep my distance. “So, Dr. Freud, I should have orgasms, according to you. Is that right? But not with you.”
“Definitely not with me.”
“What is the matter with you?” I said, so loud the half-asleep waitress behind the front counter nearly woke all the way up.
“What’s the matter with me is that I’m an asshole,” Nick said. “We’ve established that. What’s the matter with you?”