It was perhaps the most dismissive, careless compliment she’d ever received. It was also, however, a correct statement. She did know things.
And given her knowing-things pedigree, she was shocked she hadn’t considered Cupid’s possible bottom status before now. Dammit, she’d read E. Wade’s books multiple times. How had she overlooked the way Cupid’s special arrow angled higher whenever Psyche climbed on top? And if the books hadn’t given her enough clues, the show should have.
In retrospect, Cupid’s expression after Psyche pushed him against the wall and pinned his wrists as she kissed him should have told Lauren everything. Everything.
Had Alex not realized what his face was doing in that scene? And how had they all missed the Cupid Is Definitely the Little Spoon implications of it all?
“Are you even paying attention to me?” Alex’s perfect nose had lifted high in the air, and he sniffed down at her. “You do realize your inattentiveness is exceedingly rude, correct?”
Ah, but it was too late for insults now. He’d told her she knew things.
Why did that make her straighten and puff out her chest a little? And even as she preened, why did she want so very badly to laugh? At him, and at herself too?
She didn’t laugh. But she did bask in the moment.
Right now, if only for a fleeting snatch of time, she had the upper hand with Alex. She intended to enjoy it.
“Very well, then.” With a sweep of her arm, she gestured to the couch. “Sit down, Alex. Nanny Clegg will explain the birds and the bees and the bottoms to you.”
“Fucking hell,” he groaned.
But damned if he didn’t sit down.
4
“HEY, LAUREN,” ALEX SAID, AVIDLY EYEING HER EXPRESSION. “If I called you a claggy sponge, what would you say?”
To his disappointment, she didn’t visibly react. Instead, she continued frowning at the wall of windows overlooking one of the Spanish airport’s many runways.
“In response to such a transparent attempt at provocation?” Her voice was preoccupied. “I’d say nothing.”
She gave a decisive little nod, then rose from the very wide, very heavy armchair she’d chosen in the near-empty business lounge. Before he could react or do it for her, she hoisted that chair, moved it closer to the windows, and plopped back into its cushioned embrace.
Then she got out her e-reader and bent her stupid, boring head over it again, matching words to deeds.
Goddamn. His appointed jailer was fucking frustrating sometimes.
Not that she’d notice, but he wasn’t letting her escape his orbit that easily. Standing, he shifted his own chair nearer to the windows and even closer to hers than it was before.
Setting it down with a little grunt, he studied it consideringly before turning back to her.
“That chair is heavy as shit.” He gave it a shove for emphasis, and it didn’t move an inch. “Are you bench-pressing cars in your spare time, or what?”
Her brow was still furrowed, and she was once again readjusting her sad little ponytail. As far as he could tell, she hadn’t turned to a new page in her book yet.
“I’m strong.” She flicked him a brief, abstracted glare. “And don’t swear in public. There are children here.”
In her new position next to the windows, unforgiving sunlight bathed her profile, and he had it. He finally had it. She didn’t just remind him of a bird, she reminded him of— “A Picasso!” He stabbed a finger in her direction. “You look like a portrait by Picasso!”
He sat back in his chair, crossing an ankle over his knee, entirely triumphant.
“Thank you so much.” There was a definite sarcastic edge to her words, a sharpness she usually lacked.
Now he was frowning too.
Picasso was one of his favorite artists. Back home, several coffee table books of Picasso’s works sat displayed on the library shelves, and Alex flipped through their pages often.
He’d loved Picasso for … decades now. Thirty years.
Without his father in the picture, his mom hadn’t had much money when Alex was growing up. During long, sticky summers in Florida, when she’d managed to bank enough vacation time at one of her retail jobs and saved a few precious dollars, they hadn’t flown anywhere or taken cruises. Instead, they’d gone on road trips up and down the coast.
Fort Lauderdale. St. Augustine. And one memorable time, Miami.
They’d stayed in a cheap motel on the outskirts of the area to save money, but ventured into the heart of the vibrant city itself during the still, humid mornings, before the inevitable storm clouds rolled in every afternoon.