Page 17 of Sin Bin

“Or something.” He undoes the second button of his shirt collar, as though overheated. “It was casual.” Shaking his head slowly, he adds, “What I meant to say is, it just didn’t work out. Nochemistry.”

The twitch threatens to turn into an all-out spasm. Once upon a time, I’d had no problem talking to Andre about his women. But now . . . it leaves a sour taste in my mouth. “I was under the impression that chemistry wasn’t something you needed in your romantic life,” I murmur, “one and done,right?”

The words are out before I can stop them, and my hand itches to clap over my mouth and stop the verbaldiarrhea.

But Andre only laughs, the sound emerging as a deep rumble that hints at twisted sheets and scattered pillows. “Jealous,Zoe?”

“What?Absolutelynot.”

He leans in, one elbow planted on the bar. “Are you sure? You’ve got that look on your faceagain.”

My hand swipes over the bridge of my nose and down toward my chin, like I’m washing away all emotion from my face. “Better?”

“Hmm, maybe.” He shifts his big body on the barstool and reaches out to touch the corner of my mouth. It hardly constitutes anything of importance, but my breath hitches at the brief contact, just as he murmurs, “I can still see yourfrown.”

Memories of movie nights and lunch outings flit through my brain, and I bat Andre’s hand away. “Don’t,” I warn him in a low voice, and just like that, as though I turned off a switch, the easygoing expression on his faceevaporates.

In its place is one that I’ve seen frequently—or, I mean, one that Iusedto see frequently. An icy cold mask thatwon’tmelt.

He wraps a hand around his cocktail and, ignoring the thin, neon-green straw, drinks straight from the rim. His Adam’s apple bobs down, and he looks like something straight out of a soda commercial. My knees lock together. I hate him for doing this, for turning me on with nothing more than a stupid sip of hisdrink.

Maybe I need another year of no contact with him to really get my brain in the rightplace.

“So,” he says, breaking the terse silence, “yourthirtydays.”

Right, back tobusiness.

“Twenty-nine,” I replyinstinctively.

“All right, twenty-nine.” His tongue flicks out over his bottom lip to absorb a droplet of whiskey. “I’ve been thinkingtoday—”

I feign shock, going so far as to press a hand to my chest. “Sothat’swhat held you up this morning? I had no idea that you couldn’t think and do at thesametime.”

Though his shoulders twitch, he ignores my taunting. “I think we’re going to have to lay out someparameters.”

For once, I agree with him. “Yes, that would probably be a good idea. What’s first onyourlist?”

“Nosex.”

A surprised cough splits my lungs in half, and I double over. He waits patiently for my recovery, ordering another whiskey and coke from the bartender, as well as a bottle ofwater.

The bartender pops the water bottle on the bar first and Andre immediately slides it over. “A peace offering,” he tells me, “for nearlykillingyou.”

“I’m surprised you don’t want me dead,” I rasp, accepting his offering with as much finesse aspossible.

“If you were dead, then who would revitalize myreputation?”

Goodpoint.

When I’ve fully recovered from my coughing spree, I say, “Can you handle no sex for amonth?”

Something in his gaze flickers, something that I can’t even begin to understand. “I’m not talking about no sex in general . . . I’m talking about not having sexwithyou.”

My mouth falls open, and I’m not entirely surprised when a growl emerges from deep within my chest. “Are youkiddingme?” I abandon the water on the bar to jab a finger at him angrily. “I wouldn’t have sex with you even if youbeggedme.”

The look he gives me would cause a weaker woman to lose her panties upon its delivery, but I stand strong. Been there, done that, and I have no intention of returning to buy the damn T-shirt.

“We both know that I don’t beg,” he finally says. There’s a small pause. His gaze darts down to my lips, lingering, and then he adds, “The same can’t be said for you,though.”

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