“Good.” He was still scrolling through the comments, studying the posts, his eyebrows pulled together over his oh-so-sexy dark eyes. Some people thought he looked a lot like Jesus Christ—well, the American Christian version of what people thought Jesus had looked like, but in Mia’s mind, Jesus looked a lot like Jonas. Only Jonas was rougher looking and a lot hotter, which was a good thing, because Mia couldn’t think about sex with Jesus. No way. But with Jonas? Yes, please.
She thought he would jump her the second they closed the door behind them and slipped the lock through its chain. She imagined him twisting her around and forcing his lips down on hers, and then they would be scrambling, tearing off clothing before he hoisted her off her feet and carried her to the bedroom. And then . . . oh, and then.
But he hadn’t.
In fact, he’d barely talked on the way to the apartment, had even drummed his fingers on the ledge of the passenger seat window as if he were passing time—waiting for something. He hadn’t seemed to realize that the window glass of her Honda didn’t quite meet the car’s roof, that cold wind whistled inside the Accord as she’d driven. Worse yet, she’d worn high boots and a short skirt and she’d thought he might reach over and touch her bare leg on the drive to Gresham, but he hadn’t even noticed. She’d been practically freezing to show off a bit of bare skin and it was almost as if he’d been somewhere else, barely speaking to her, his thoughts far away.
Shit!
She’d hoped he was planning his seductive next move and was a little shy about being physical with her, but—Oh, come on, Mia. Who are you kidding? Jonas McIntyre is not shy. The man has balls of steel.
Right?
“You want something to drink,” she offered, hoping to break the ice, end the awkwardness.
“Sure.” He didn’t look up. In fact, he didn’t react to her at all. It was almost like she wasn’t even in the room.
Fuck!
She was about to be angry, but he followed her into the kitchen and as she opened the refrigerator door and leaned insider, she made sure her ass was right in his line of vision. How could it not be? You could barely turn around in the small space. He was forced into the corner between the stove and sink.
She grabbed two beers from the fridge, cracked them open and handed a bottle to Jonas, who was still wearing his damned jacket. Maybe she’d have to be bolder. And the baby next door was cranking up the volume again. The kid wasn’t abused, she knew that much, had checked, but the colicky eighteen-month-old picked the worst moments to be upset. The worst. Like now!
“Thanks.” Absently he took a pull on the long neck, then eased through the doorway back to the dining area with her flea-market table. He looped one leg over one of the tall café chairs and was once again peering intently at her iPad.
Damn it all.
She was getting desperate.
“I want to show you something,” she said in a soft, sexy voice.
“Okay.” Again, still focused on the screen. He’d stopped scrolling at a post from last week and was staring at a comment, then clicked onto the name of the person and Mia died a little inside as Lacey Higgins Swift’s profile appeared. Lacey’s picture included a tall man with thinning hair, an English sheepdog and two blond boys who appeared to be about two. Twins, dressed identically, in red and green striped PJs.
Mia thought she might be sick.
“Does she post much?” Jonas asked. He pointed a finger at the iPad.
“Lacey?”
“Yeah.”
Why the hell was he asking about his old girlfriend? The slut who had fucked his brother, then testified against him. “Not that I’ve noticed.” That was a lie. She’d kept track of Jonas’s ex, of course she had. It appeared that Lacey had moved on, went to college, got married, had a couple of kids. Living the perfect life somewhere in Beaverton, on the west side of the Willamette River, not too far from Portland, only minutes from the McIntyre mansion in the West Hills. Mia knew. Mia had made a point of knowing.
He took another swallow from his Coors.
Mia, tamping down a bit of annoyance, leaned across the tall table. “I want to show you something.”
“What?” He was starting to turn back to the screen.
“This.” She unbuttoned her sweater, exposing her breast, where, just a month ago, she’d added another tattoo. Free Jonas was scripted just under her collarbone.
One of his eyebrows raised. “Cool.”
“I did it for you.”
“Yeah, I get it.” A hint of a smile in his beard-darkened jaw. “Cool.”