The Player and the Pixie
Page 10

The table would have been large enough for two if I’d been with anyone other than Sean Cassidy.
Scanning the menu, my mouth practically watered at the options, but unlike I’d threatened, I didn’t order the most expensive thing. It was too much of a dick move and Sean was being unexpectedly pleasant. So long as he treated me with respect, I’d treat him with respect in return.
After we’d both placed our orders, Sean leaned in and rested his elbows on the table, clasping his hands beneath his chin. He nodded to my handbag, a multi-colored, handwoven satchel I’d picked up in the East Village in New York.
“So, let’s see what you took,” he said, his eyes scanning the satchel. “That bag is atrocious, by the way. You should allow me to buy you something less gaudy.”
And there he went showing his true colors. I stuck my chin out and smiled, not letting him get to me. “I’m gaudy? Says the man who has poor taste in, well, everything.”
His eyebrows, which were several shades darker than his blond hair, shot up in surprise. Normally I lived my life by the mantra, kill them with kindness. But it was hard to be kind to Sean Cassidy, especially since he had a knack for offending people before he even opened his mouth.
Remind me again why I agreed to have dinner with him?
Oh yes, because I was a naïve fool, easily charmed by a handsome smile and a few brief minutes of false chivalry.
Now Sean sat back, folding his arms as he met my gaze. “Explain.”
Ha! I could win this argument with less than one sentence. “Brona O’Shea.”
I swear, if I had a mic I’d drop it. Sean’s lips tightened, his eyes narrowed, and I loved his annoyed reaction.
“What? Did I hit a nerve?” I was nearly giggling, enjoying his discomfort far too much.
“If my agreement with Brona proves my poor taste, then your brother also has poor taste by association.”
“Ronan doesn’t have poor taste, he’s just prone to bad judgment. It’s a family trait, which explains why I’m sitting here with you right now.”
Sean’s mouth began to curve in a smile. “If I’d known you were this much fun, I’d have forced you into having dinner with me years ago.”
I lifted my glass and took a sip of water before pointing out, “Years ago I was underage.”
Sean bit his lip, pulling it slowly between his perfect teeth, and allowed his gaze to wander from my eyes to my collarbone as he murmured, “Yes, you were, weren’t you? How old are you?
“Twenty-three.”
“You’re not that young.”
I didn’t like the husky quality to his voice right then, nor did I like the way his eyelids lowered, making me imagine he was having sexy thoughts. In an effort to distract myself, I picked up the small paper bag he’d placed at the side of the table when we’d arrived and pulled out the cream he’d bought. I didn’t ask permission, because that was just my way. Sean didn’t utter a word, but simply watched me as I twisted open the lid and took a sniff.
“Smells a bit like a church, but in a nice way,” I said.
“It’s sandalwood,” he replied. “Here, give it to me.”
I handed it across the table and he swiped his fingers in, extracting a small blob. Before I could react he took my hand and smoothed the cream into my wrist. His hands were very . . . large. My fingers felt completely encapsulated, minuscule by comparison. A tingling, nervous feeling buzzed in my belly as his fingertips massaged my sensitive skin. When he was done he lifted my wrist to his nose and inhaled deeply.
“Smells good on you,” he said. I was momentarily lost for words.
Uh, would it be too overfamiliar to request he do that again, this time all over my body?
The waiter arrived with our food and Sean dropped my hand. I placed it in my lap under the table, like it was now a thing of obscenity too sexual for prying eyes.
Digging into my yellowfin tuna, I tried to push my thoughts to a safer, non-sexually arousing place. Quickly, I imagined Ronan’s reaction if he knew I was here right now—his famous temper flaring—and yep, that did the trick.
Sean had ordered the steak, of course he had. The thing was almost as big as my head.
“You rugby boys sure know how to put food away,” I commented.
He was currently chewing a cleanly cut slice of meat, and there was something about it that had me squeezing my thighs together. Maybe the way his jaw moved? Not to mention he had the most sensual mouth I’d ever seen.
“Tell me about it,” he replied and patted his oh-so-flat stomach. “This is my second big meal today. Dropped by for a late breakfast with the fam earlier this afternoon.”
“Don’t call your family ‘the fam’, Sean. It sounds douchey. Another two syllables won’t kill you,” I chided playfully.
Sean’s smirk indicated he was enjoying my criticism, and I didn’t understand that, either. “This coming from the girl with hair like a packet of Skittles.”
“My hair isn’t douchey,” I said, and flicked a few locks over my shoulder. “It brings joy to all those who gaze upon it.”
“Is that what those hippies in Vermont tell you? At that Maharishi sanctuary on the mountain?”
“It’s not a Maharishi sanctuary, it’s a yoga retreat.”
“Is there a difference?”
I ignored him because he seemed to be trying to fluster me . . . or flirt . . . or both. “It’s a yoga retreat in New Hampshire, on a lake.”