Charlie studies me.
“I’m fine!” I say again.
“Clearly.”
“You’re laughing now, but—”
“I’m not laughing,” he interjects. “When did I laugh?”
“Good point. I’m sure that’s never happened. But just you wait until one of your authors turns in a book about an amber-eyed asshole editor.”
“Amber-eyed?” he says.
“I notice you didn’t question the asshole part of that sentence,” I say, and chug some more. Clearly, the filter has melted away again, but at least that’s proof I’m not the woman in those pages.
“I’m used to people thinking I’m an asshole,” he says stiffly. “Less used to them describing my eyes as ‘amber.’？”
“That’s what color they are,” I say. “It’s objective. I’m not complimenting you.”
“In that case, I’ll abstain from being flattered. What color are yours?” He leans in without any hint of embarrassment, only curiosity, his warm breath feathering over my jaw. That’s pretty much when I realize I think he’s hot.
I mean, I know I thought he was hot in Mug + Shot when I thought he was someone else, but this is when I realize I think he— specifically Charlie Lastra, not just someone who looks like him— is hot.
I take another sip. “Red.”
“Really brings out the color of your forked tail and horns.”
“You’re too sweet.”
“Now that,” he says, “is something I’ve never been accused of.”
“I can’t imagine why not.”
He arches a brow, that honey-gold ring around his black-hole pupils glinting. “And I’m sure people line up to recite sonnets about your sweetness?”
I scoff. “My sister’s the sweet one. If she pees outside, flower gardens burst up from it.”
“You know,” he says, “Sunshine Falls might not be the big city, but you should let your sister know, we do have indoor plumbing. Pretty much the only thing Dusty got right.”
“Shoot!” I grab my phone. Dusty. She’s in a vulnerable place, and she’s used to me being one hundred percent accessible. Whether this book makes me look like the Countess Báthory or not, I owe it to her to do my job. I start typing a reply, using an uncharacteristic excess of exclamation points.
Charlie checks his watch. “Nine o’clock, on vacation, in a bar, and you’re still working. Nadine Winters would be proud.”
“You’re one to judge,” I say. “I happen to know your Loggia Publishing email account has had plenty of action this week.”
“Yes, but I have no problem with Nadine Winters,” he says. “In fact, I find her fascinating.”
My eyes catch on the word I’m typing. “Oh? What’s so interesting about a sociopath?”
“Patricia Highsmith might have something to say about that,” he replies. “But more importantly, Nora, don’t you think you’re judging this character a little too harshly? It’s ten pages.”
I sign the message, hit send, and swivel back to him, my knees locking into place between his. “Because as we all know, reviewers are notoriously kind to female characters.”
“Well, I like her. Who the fuck cares whether anyone else does, as long as they want to read about her?”
“People also slow down to gawk at car wrecks, Charlie. Are you calling me a car wreck?”
“I’m not talking about you at all,” he says. “I’m talking about Nadine Winters. My fictional crush.”
A feeling like a scorching-hot Slinky drops through me. “Big fan of jet-black hair and Krav Maga, huh?”
Charlie leans forward, face serious, voice low. “It’s more about the blood dripping from her fangs.”
I’m unsure how to respond. Not because it’s gross, but because I’m pretty sure he’s making a reference to the Shark of it all, and that feels dangerously close to flirting.
And I should definitely not be flirting with him. For all I know, he has a partner—or a doll room—and then there’s the fact that publishing is a small pond, and one wrong move could easily pollute it.
God, even my internal dialogue sounds like Nadine. I clear my throat, take a sip of beer, and force myself not to overthink the way I’m sitting tucked between his thighs, or how my eyes keep zeroing in on that crease beneath his lip. I don’t need to overthink. I don’t need to be in complete control.