Page 5 of You Complicate Me

He didn’t look at her again, but that dimple—that truly annoying dimple that seemed to only pop out when he was laughing at her—made another appearance. “You talk a lot when you’re drunk, Grace.”

She groaned and slammed her head back against the seat. “Jesus, could this get any more embarrassing?”

“You also groped my ass when I had you slung over my shoulder, carrying you off the plane,” he added helpfully.

Embarrassment had struck her mute, she decided, because when she opened her mouth, no sound came out.

His gaze slid to hers, and his smile was pure sin. “I might’ve groped yours a little, too, if it makes you feel better.”

She sputtered. “It most certainly does not.”

He lifted a shoulder. “Oh, well, I won’t hold a grudge if you don’t. Bygones and all.”

Bygones. Grace took a deep breath and counted to ten under her breath. “Are you purposefully trying to embarrass and irritate me?”

“A little, yeah.”

His truthful answer stunned her silent for another brief moment. “Why?” she finally managed to ask.

“You’ve been silent for about forty miles.” He shrugged again. “I was bored.”

“You were bored.”

“Yep.”

“And antagonizing me entertains you?”

He cursed as traffic forced him to stop again, then met her incredulous gaze and smiled. “Yeah. You get all pink and squinty-eyed. It’s sexy.”

Grace blinked. She wasn’t sure anyone had ever called her sexy before. Her apple cheeks and the dusting of pale freckles across her nose usually got her lumped into the cute category. With the right amount of makeup and good lighting she could pull off pretty. But sexy? Never.

And certainly not by men who looked like Nick O’Connor.

The type of guy she usually ended up with was more Seth Rogan than Hugh Jackman. Not that there was anything wrong with Seth Rogan. His work in The Green Hornet was highly underrated in her opinion.

In truth, men like Nick—the kind who oozed testosterone and sex—always made Grace a little nervous. She imagined he’d been a jock in high school. Homecoming King. Voted most likely to take the head cheerleader’s virginity.

Grace had been captain of the debate team. Class treasurer. Voted most likely to die a virgin.

That last one had stung a bit at the time.

She realized she was staring at him and shifted her gaze back out the window. She’d been a little disappointed when he walked into the interrogation room. She’d hoped that when she sobered up, Nick would be less…well, less.

Sadly, he wasn’t.

The only imperfection he seemed to have—other than his personality and apparent love of torturing her—was a faint scar that ran down his left temple. “How’d you get your scar?”

His smile disappeared. “Afghanistan. IED.”

Grace waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t.

He obviously didn’t want to talk about it. She’d only asked because she was groping for something, anything, that would make him less attractive. To her way of thinking, if he was less attractive, maybe she wouldn’t be so embarrassed about the giant ass she made of herself when she met him.

But her plan backfired, because knowing he’d been injured in the line of duty while serving his country instead of, say, wrecking his car while driving drunk, just made her feel like a bitch of epic proportions for even bringing the scar up. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I shouldn’t have asked. And thank you for your service.”

“Fair question,” he said, not really sounding offended. “Scar’s kind of hard to miss. And you’re welcome.”

In the awkward silence that followed, Grace decided it was time to lighten the mood, so she said, “You know, I once read a Liverpool and Stirling study on the attractiveness of facial scars to the opposite sex. They found that men with facial scars were 5.7 percentage points higher in terms of physical appeal than men without any scars.”

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