Really? He’s scared I’m going to jump his bones?
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. And then, blame it on exhaustion or frustration or mental whiplash from riding an emotional roller coaster for the last thirty-six hours, but she found, in that moment, she very much wanted to prove him right. She did want to jump his bones. If for no other reason than to wipe that ridiculous look off his face.
Crossing her arms, she tilted her head. “What’s with you, anyway?”
He blinked. “Huh?”
“I mean, all this time, I thought you didn’t particularly like me. Thought maybe you didn’t like red hair.” She lifted a lock off her shoulder. “Or thick thighs.” She motioned toward her legs. “But then there was that whole deal up in Sander’s bedroom and—”
“You don’t have thick thighs,” Mac muttered, not quite meeting her gaze. “I don’t know why women always think they have thick thighs…”
“That’s what you took away from what I just said?”
He did meet her gaze then. And what do you suppose the big, irritating, lug did? He shrugged. Shrugged! Ooh!
“Okay,” she huffed. “Let me put it another way. How can you have spent the last four years sneering at me like I’m something stuck to the bottom of your shoe, and then suddenly claim last night that you’re my friend? How can you claim to be my friend last night, only to kiss me cross-eyed up in Sander’s bedroom this morning?” She enumerated her points on her fingers as she made them. “And how can you kiss me cross-eyed this morning, only to turn around and sneer at me down in Sander’s living room five minutes later? It’s like you can’t decide whether you like me or loathe me.”
He hooked his thumbs in his front belt loops and rocked back on his heels. He may’ve been trying to pretend supreme indolence, but the air around him, the air between them, crackled with electricity. And his expression might’ve suddenly gone all lazy, Southern boy, devil-may-care, his stare heavy lidded, but his eyes were absolutely full of guarded calculation.
“Like you said,” he mumbled, “given the evidence in Sander’s bedroom, it’s quite obvious my feelings toward you fall firmly in the ‘like’ category.”
“I’m not talking physically,” she stressed. “I get now that your boy parts like my girl parts, thick thighs and all, but—”
“You do not have thick thighs!”
“Why the hell are we still talking about my thighs?”
“Because you keep bringin’ them up!” He’d dropped the easy-going act. Now his wide jaw was sawing back and forth, and he crossed his arms over his chest. Yep. There were those barbed wire tattoos. And there were those bulging biceps.
“Answer the goddamned question, Mac!”
“It’s not that I don’t like you!” he roared, then caught himself and blew out a breath. For a second, he did nothing but give his jaw muscles a workout as he scowled down at the floor. Then, slowly he said, “But the thing is, I don’t want to get involved with you…with a woman like you.”
Whoa. Huh? Her hackles twitched to life.
“You might want to clarify that last statement,” she warned, fisting her hands on her hips as she stalked toward him. He retreated a hasty step in response. “What do you mean a woman like me?”
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple jerking up the tan column of his throat.
“I just meant…uh…a woman who’s beautiful and vivacious and used to being adored and…um…stuff.”
“Because…” She made a rolling motion with her finger, his pseudo-compliment having fallen on deaf ears because the way he said beautiful and vivacious, they might as well have been dirty words.
“Because I’ve seen what happens.” He swallowed again when she took another step forward, then another, until the steel toes of her biker boots were barely an inch from his.
He was trapped between her and the motel room door. And not that he couldn’t pick her up and toss her aside as easily as he could a cocktail napkin, but for now she had him right where she wanted him.
“And what exactly happens?” Her heartbeat was slow and steady, efficiently fueling the fire building in her blood.
“Delilah.” When he said her name like that, all low and Sam Elliott throaty, she had to suppress a shiver. “I think very highly of you. I do. But…”
The word hung in the air for what seemed like forever. In reality it was probably only a second or two, but it was a second or two longer than Delilah had the patience for.
“But what, Mac?” she demanded.
He stared at her for a second more, his eyes narrowed like he was trying to see into her soul. She let him look. She had nothing to hide. Then he shrugged. “It’s just that women like you aren’t cut out for—” He stopped and shook his head. “You’re nothing but trouble,” he finally finished.
“Nothing but trouble?” If her jaw hadn’t been attached to her head, it would’ve dropped to the floor. “Jesus Christ, Mac. You’re a goddamned misogynist! I never would’ve believed that.”
His chin jutted out stubbornly, making him look even more…stubborn. She didn’t want to press a finger to that fascinating dimple now. She wanted to slam a fist into it. Pow! One hit in the name of all womanhood!
“I’m not a misogynist,” he growled. “I love women. Everything about them. But I have firsthand knowledge of certain types of women, and I know my tendencies and limitations as well as theirs.”
“You almost had me convinced,” she sneered. “Up until that last bit, which was spoken like a true misogynist.”
For a moment they just stood there, glowering at each other. Delilah fancied the flashing in her peripheral vision was actual sparks crackling through the air. The fine hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stood up as if in warning of a potential lightning strike. And then it happened. But the thunderbolt wasn’t a burst of electricity from the sky, it was Mac’s next words…
“Would a misogynist have resisted you all this time because he knew he couldn’t offer you anything more than a hard fuck?” And not that she wasn’t used to him cursing. He could sling a blue streak as well as anyone. But what she wasn’t used to was him being so crude about it. “Would a misogynist have suffered innumerable hard-ons just to save you the ignominy of a one-night stand?”
Of their own accord, her eyes darted down to the fly of his Levis. Sure enough, there it was. Mr. Woody.
“I was protectin’ you, goddamnit!” he nearly shouted, causing her eyes to fly to his face. “I know you’re lookin’ for more than a scratch for your itch. And since I can’t give you more, I was savin’ you the hurt and humiliation!”
“But…” She knew she was about to open herself up for more rejection. “Why? I don’t understand!”
He threw his hands in the air before pushing her aside so he could pace in front of the double beds. “We’ve already gone through this.” His booted steps thudded angrily against the carpet.
“Humor me,” she said, folding her arms over her chest, chafing her biceps. Cold. She suddenly felt very cold. Because of the air-conditioner? Or because she somehow sensed just how chilling Mac’s next words would be?