“If I wanted to be one of your conquests, I’d get in your way. But I don’t, so I don’t.” She’d said it with a flat smile, brows raised and eyes unblinking.
“Whoever said they’re conquests, dear? Or that I wanted you to be one?”
Her eyebrows slid over him—over his day-old stubble, the cigarette dangling from his fingers, the smart but shabbily worn suit with its sharp crease down the legs. She snorted. “You do. Every time you look at me like that, you do.”
She turned away from him, in the direction of her workstation. He jumped in front of her. “Whatever do you mean? I’m not looking at you in any way in particular.”
She laughed. A short bark that reverberated around the open space and turned heads. “Aren’t you?”
This time when she left, he let her go.