Incapable (Love Triumphs 3)
She pushed against his chest. Well, that was the idea, but once her hands sat over his pecs she wanted to stitch them there. “That’s not what I meant.”
He might kiss her. She stared straight into his face and lifted her chin, but he missed that cue, shifting to his own seat. She almost laughed. He had her strung out like coloured bunting, flapping in the breeze for his attention.
“I’m not kissing you till you’ve chosen a dress.”
“That’s a shame.” She clung to his side and spoke in his ear. “I can’t sleep with you if you won’t kiss me.” He turned his head to try to catch her lips but she bounced back into her own space.
“I’d make an exception.”
She sighed loudly. “I couldn’t have you compromise your moral stance.”
“Compassion is the basis for morality.” He said that with a German accent.
“Who was that?”
“That was my all-purpose German philosopher. Did it work?”
“To convince me to be compassionate?”
“I’d roll without the com.”
“You can’t buy me a dress.”
He touched her shoulder, trailed fingers down her arm to her hand. “I’ve asked you to a formal event. It’s proper formal, not Sunday best. If you already have a dress, then let’s have lunch instead, but you said you didn’t have much in the way of date clothes, so I’m assuming you don’t have a formal dress either. No dress, no date. I have to go to this thing. I want you to come with me.”
“I can buy my own dress.” A formal dress was going to cost a bomb. With the move home, bond for the flat, paying for services to be turned on, she hadn’t been working long enough to have much in the way of savings and she already had a load of credit card debt.
He sighed and released her hand. “I shouldn’t dictate what you wear.”
She could hire a dress. He would never know if it wasn’t quite right, but that felt dishonest. If this was London, she could borrow one. “Maybe I should sit this one out.”
He slapped his hand on the seat. “Goddamn, let me buy you a dress.” The driver’s eyes came up in the rear-view.
No amusing accent, a flare of genuine temper. They weren’t going to make it to next weekend for her to need the stupid dress.
Damon made a grunt of annoyance. “Sorry. It’s work. It’s a tax write-off. Can’t you let me buy you a dress so I don’t have to go to this thing alone?”
Why would he need to go alone? “Taylor or Dalia would go with you.” He must know dozens of women. “Lauren probably has a dress that would suit.”
“Taylor would laugh herself sick if I asked her. Dalia has the play. Lauren would dump me for some able-bodied guy five seconds after we got there. I want to go with you. Unless this is your way of telling me you don’t want to go?” There was a good clump of snip in his tone and his forehead was furrowed, his mouth flat lined.
“It really is a tax write-off?” She was making a big deal out of this, but it was a big deal. The last formal dress she’d owned was white, but it’d come from a Red Cross thrift shop because they’d been too laden with medical expenses to fritter money away on a new wedding dress and she’d only worn it for an hour anyway, because she’d felt stupid making a trip to the hospital canteen in it.
“You want to check with my accountant?”
“You already gave me a fish.”
A crinkle behind the arm of his sunglasses. “I’m incredibly frivolous.”
“I’m going to regret this.”
?
??If you believe that, we’re going for lunch.”
Oh, still cranky. “It’d better be a good kiss.”
He brought her hand to his lips, a flick of his tongue on her knuckle. She closed her eyes. The romance of him was devastating news. He was a headline event and she was pushed into the margin of the story by his presence and her own insecurity. He was not the gentle kickstart relationship she needed, but he was the full catastrophe she was going to get.