Nice. Maybe Rich is a communicable disease. I point to his right hand. “Hot chocolate.”
“I thought you might be a hot chocolate girl.”
I take the hot chocolate from him and try not to register my shaking hand as I do so. That would imply his showing up out of the blue on my doorstep is tripping me out.
My gaze travels the length of him. It irritates me that this early in the morning Xander can look so . . . awake. If I saw him in the middle of the night with bedhead and sleepy eyes, would he still look so perfect?
“Your stare can make a guy insecure.”
“I’m not staring. I’m observing.”
“What’s the difference?”
“The intent of observation is to gain data and form a theory or conclusion.”
He tilts his head. “And what theory have you formed?”
That you’re at least one step removed from normal. A chunky black ring on his pinky finger knocks against a rocking chair as he turns to glance around the dark store. I raise my eyebrows. Maybe two steps. “That you’re a morning person.”
He holds his arms out to the sides as if to say, You caught me. “I’ve made an observation as well.”
“What’s that?”
“You have very wet hair.”
Oh. That’s right. “Yeah, well, you gave me no warning. I don’t wake up looking perfect.” Like some people.
A realization comes over his face and I wait for him to express it. He looks over his shoulder toward the back. “Do you live here?”
“Yeah, there’s an apartment upstairs.” Now I’m confused. “So if you didn’t know I lived here, why did you knock on the door before opening?”
“Because I assumed you had to come in early to get everything ready to open.”
“This is where proper amounts of observation would’ve come in handy.”
He laughs.
“You have no idea how many nightmares a porcelain-doll store can fuel. I have been murdered in a variety of ways by angelic-looking dolls over the years.”
“That’s really . . . morbid.”
I laugh. “So what are you doing here?”
“I’m getting Eddie’s. Isn’t that obvious? And since you introduced me to the poison, I thought it only right that I share in the bounty.”
“You like to look at the dolls, don’t you? You miss them when you’re away.”
He offers one of his stingily given smiles. “Yes, I miss this place terribly when I’m away.”
I set the phone on the counter, wrap both my hands around the warm cup, and lead the way toward the stockroom. He follows. I sit down on the old couch and put my feet up on the coffee table.
He sets the Eddie’s bag and his coffee on the table by my feet, takes off his jacket, and sits down next to me. “So, Caymen . . .”
“So, Xander . . .”
“Like the islands.”
“What?”
“Your name. Caymen. Like the Cayman Islands. Is that your mom’s favorite place to visit or something?”
“No, it’s her third favorite place. I have an older brother named Paris and an older sister named Sydney.”
“Wow.” He opens the bag, takes out a muffin, and hands it to me. The top glistens with sprinkled sugar. “Really?”
I gently unwrap it. “No.”
“Wait, so you don’t have older siblings or those aren’t their names?”
“I’m an only child.” Mostly because I was born out of wedlock and have no contact with my father. Would that statement send him running? Probably. So why didn’t I say it out loud?
“Note to self: Caymen is very good at sarcasm.”
“If you’re recording notes for an official record, I’d like the word ‘very’ stricken and replaced with ‘exceptionally.’”
His eyes light up with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his lips, but that seems to imply he actually finds me amusing. My mother always told me guys were put off by my sarcasm.
“All right, your turn,” he says.
“For what?”
“Ask me a question.”
“Okay . . . um . . . Do you often force girls to invite you into their houses?”
“Never. They usually invite me in themselves.”
“Of course they do.”
He leans back and takes a bite of his muffin. “So, Ms. Observant, what was your first impression of me?”
“When you came into the store?”
“Yes.”
That’s easy. “Arrogant.”
“Really? What made you think that?”
Does that surprise him? “I thought it was my turn to ask a question.”
“What?”
“Isn’t that how the game works? We each get a question?”
He looks at me expectantly. I realize I have no question. Or maybe I have too many. Like why is he really here? When will he realize I don’t play with his crowd? What exactly made him interested in the first place? . . . If that’s what this is. “Can I go finish getting ready?”
Chapter 9
“No. Okay, my turn. What made me come off as arrogant?”
I stare at the crease on the sleeve of his T-shirt—a clear indication it had been ironed. Who irons T-shirts? “You beckoned me,” I say, remembering that first day.
His brown eyes flash to mine. Even his eyes with their gold flecks remind me of his wealth. “I what?”