Imaginary Lines (New York Leopards 3)

I raised my brows. “And yet I don’t seem to remember the bartender having any qualms about serving you and your teammates.”

His smile broadened. “There were always some perks to being part of the team.”

My brows rose even further, giving me, I had no doubt, the appearance of a sea-witch. “Were? I’ve sure all the perks have long since vanished now that you’ve gone pro. How Olympian of you.” I let my eyes linger on his ridiculously expensive watch and jacket, and then tilted my head, a smile edging at the corners of my lips.

He raised a hand and rubbed the back of his head, looking rather sheepish. His flyaway curls begged to be tucked back into place. “Tamar Rosenfeld. When you develop such a cutting sense of humor?”

I waved a hand, my full grin threatening to break out. I managed to keep it to a demure smile. “Oh, I always had it. Though I’ll admit it’s matured with age. While at twenty-three I’m still a rather rough, acerbic vintage, I’m sure that by ninety-three I’ll be so smooth you’ll barely even notice my barbs until too late. I plan to wear a purple hat and travel the world to share my opinions with the unwashed masses.”

He propped his chin on his hand, appearing vastly amused. “Oh? And where did this grand plan come from?”

The grin burst out of me. “Our mothers, of course. Where else?”

“I didn’t know our mothers were traveling the world.”

“Oh, yes. They’re buying an RV and traveling cross-country after our fathers die.”

He smirked at me. “How perfectly morbid.”

“Well, they worked out that they both come from abnormally long-lived lineages.” I tried to look down my nose at him, which basically amounted to tilting my chin down but eyes up. I was surprised by how much I was enjoying myself. “If you happen to still be active in your nineties, I suppose you may join me on my travels.”

“Very kind. Where will we go?”

I waved an airy hand, channeling my inner old dame. “Antarctica, probably. I hear it’s the best place for old bones, especially those suffering from long-ago football injuries.”

“And carpal tunnel, from writing too much.”

“Precisely.”

He dropped the act. “I went to South Africa last year. That’s a place to go.”

I tilted my head. “I’m sure I will, after some unknown relative dies and leaves me an unusually large inheritance.” The words had barely left my mouth before I winced inwardly. Too far. “Abe, I—”

He’d stilled with an absoluteness that called to mind the depths of vast, silent lakes, and regarded me with eyes bright as the moon’s reflection. “Because I’m just a rich party kid, of course.”

I was already shaking my head. “Abe, I didn’t mean that.”

“Yeah, you did.” He studied me. “You never said anything like that to me before.”

I made an apologetic moue. “My tongue never worked properly around you before.”

He looked up sharply at that, and I met his gaze. A bolt of heat struck me, and I wondered if it hit him, too.

Best to brazen it out. I raised my chin. “Your loss.”

He cocked his head. “It’s probably too sharp anyways.”

My jaw dropped. “Abraham Krasner!”

He already looked embarrassed. “I didn’t—uh—I didn’t mean—”

He probably hadn’t meant anything by it besides an exchange of quick quips, but the fact was, it could definitely be misinterpreted. I smiled smugly. “I’m going to tell your mother.”

That made him laugh, which had been my goal. “You are not. You’ve never ratted out a person in your life.”

“Yeah, ’cause I didn’t run with a crowd that needed ratting out.”