Better Hate than Never (The Wilmot Sisters, #2)(44)

The bell to the overhead door jingles, mercifully interrupting us.

“Holy hell,” one of the women whispers, staring over my shoulder. The rest of the group follows her gaze and responds in various forms of appreciation.

It’s either Toni, who’ll take my place, or a customer I’ll turn my attention to. Whomever the tipsy ladies are checking out, they’re currently my favorite person for saving me from this torture.

Turning, I feel an actual smile on my face.

It swiftly dies.

Christopher steps inside, golden midday sun shining behind him, sparkling off the tips of his hair. He’s in that same long coat he wore last night over a whole damn bespoke suit. Dark blue so perfectly tailored, it looks poured down his body. Crisp white shirt. Bloodred tie. From the neck down, he looks straight off of Wall Street. From the neck up, he looks like a pirate. Sable hair a little too long and messily wavy for his fancy corporate job, his lashes absurdly thick and dark, that roguish gleam in his warm whiskey eyes.

I stare at his mouth and remember it moving with mine last night, hot and wet and hungry. I don’t want to, but I can’t stop. Until I remind myself what he said.

I shouldn’t have. I didn’t mean to.

“Katerina.”

I scowl at him, folding my arms across my chest. “What do you want?”

A slow smile that I think is meant to charm me tugs at the corner of his mouth. “That’s a very pretty top.”

He walks closer, examining the fabric.

“Stop deflecting with false compliments,” I tell him. “And stop ogling me.”

“The compliment was genuine, and I’m not ogling you, Katydid. I’m appreciating the print. Also trying to figure it out. I thought it was paisley, but . . .” His smile deepens. “Are those piranhas?”

“They are. Watch out. They’re not the only thing on me that bites.”

His gaze drifts to my mouth. “That’s not the threat you think it is, Kate.”

That was definitely sexual. And unlike the awkwardness of those strange women talking about pegging and feet, Christopher holding my eyes as he says that makes my whole body flush. Heat rushes up my throat and floods my cheeks.

He watches its progression and smiles his widest smile yet. All bright teeth and wide, sensual mouth.

Doing my best to ignore that I’m blushing head to toe, I ask him, “What do you want, Christopher?”

His expression sobers. It’s so reminiscent of last night, which I still can’t begin to let myself think about—what we said or that kiss. If I think about it, I might believe him, and if I believe him—that he’s sorry, that our dynamic (which I can admit I’ve played a healthy role in) got away from us, that he doesn’t hate me—I don’t know what will happen, what I’ll feel.

How badly I could get hurt if I ended up being wrong.

“Can we talk?” he asks quietly.

I arch an eyebrow. “Need I remind you what happened last time you led with that request? I’ll give you a hint. It was last night and it involved—”

“All right,” he says, that smooth facade cracking as he steps closer. “Just . . . hear me out. Right here, okay?”

“Fine.”

“I have a proposition for you,” he says. And then he immediately realizes how that came out. His eyes widen. A rare rush of pink warms his cheeks. “I—wait. Just—”

“Mm-hmm.” I shift my weight onto one hip, stony-faced.

He clears his throat. “I’m going to try that again.”

“By all means.”

“I have a business proposition. Strictly professional.”

“Does it involve me working for you?”

He smiles. “Not really. Just under my roof. My company’s.”

“I’m good, thanks.”

His smile falls. “Kate.”

“Christopher.”

“It’s business. Good business.”

“I know,” I tell him. “I’m more than a good photographer. I’m great. It would be great business for you. But you could not pay me enough to spend all day rubbing shoulders with you and your money-grubbers—”

“Who grub money for good things,” he says patiently. “Which you already know. You met Hugh. He’s a class act, isn’t he?”

Of course those two made the connection. My stomach knots. I was hoping I could pretend like I hadn’t met a sweet person who worked with Christopher, but alas.

“Everyone there is like him,” Christopher says. “Good people who care about good things. And they need updated professional photos. Everyone’s headshot is five years old. Hugh has a creepy-next-door-neighbor goatee and Nick has such a douchey hairstyle, I’m worried it’s hurting his client opportunities.”

My mouth twitches. That gleam in his eye deepens. I think, despite my best efforts to resist, I’m being a little charmed. “Nick’s hairstyle really is terrible.”

“Hey, take it easy on us Italian boys,” he says, taking on a thick accent I remember his dad using playfully when we were kids. “We got a lotta hair and no idea what to do with it.”

“Excuse me,” one of the women in the group says, raising her eyebrows at me. “Can we have some help already?”