Page 12 of The Southern Submission

“Call me curious. How old are you?” he asks.

“Twenty-five,” I answer honestly, instead of with the snarky remark ofold enoughthat almost slipped out. That could’ve been construed as combativeandinnuendo, and he doesn’t need any encouragement in that area after his flirty banter at the café earlier.

“Why are you working at the Gazette when you’re talented enough to be somewhere much better?”

I bristle and narrow my eyes at him. “What’s with all the questions? I thought that was my job.”

“I read some of your stories today. Your writing is excellent. It’s compelling, has heart, and tells the story in a unique way, no matter what you’re reporting on. You could workanywhere, but you’re at the fucking Gazette, a second-rate paper, assigned shitty stories about strip mall openings when you could be somewhere that would actually challenge you. Why?”

My chest swells with pride at his compliments and my defenses snap up at the same time. “That’s really none of your business.”

“I thought we were becoming friends, and that’s something a friend would ask.”

I scoff and sit up so I can direct my ire at him properly. “We’renotfriends. You’re an annoying man who won’t leave me alone. It was a stroke of bad luck that you sat down next to me today and felt entitled to my time and attention because you managed to fix my crappy work laptop. That doesn’t make us friends. It makes me indebted to you. That’s different.”

Payton sits up, mirroring my movements on his end of the call. I notice for the first time that he’s shirtless, his tan skin rolling over his muscled shoulders and chest as his face grows serious. My mouth dries out again. Holy shit, he’s built under the suits he’s photographed in and was hiding under the casual button-down he was wearing today at the café. I felt those muscles against me, but to see them is something else.

“Why won’t you be my friend, Spitfire?”

“Why do you insist on calling me stupid nicknames?” I fire off.

I bang my head back against the couch and close my eyes tightly instead of focusing on his defined pecs and broad shoulders and the way it looks like he’s looming over me as I lean back. I’m resolutely ignoring the things that image and the idea of him above me like this does to my dormant libido, which is starting to respond to this antagonistic man when it should stay the hell out of this conversation.

“Because of that, right there, Ainsley.”

Oh, shit. He’s thinking of fucking me on a couch, too?I lift my head and warily meet his eyes again to keep myself from looking at the smooth expanse of skin below his neck. For once, he’s not smiling, he’s dead serious, and his intensely blue eyes bore into me through the screen.

“Because ofwhat?” I ask hesitantly, keeping a frown on my face to discourage any sexual thoughts on his side of the call.

“You actually show true emotion and let the real you peek through when you’re exasperated. The real emotion, good or bad, is better than this prickly persona that you’re trying on for size like it’ll fit one day. It doesn’t suit you.”

I bite my lip, my nostrils flaring as I huff out a breath, relieved he wasn’t thinking about sex but frustrated he’s so damn good at reading me when I’m normally so much better at projecting whatever I want people to see. I can’t respond to his comment without giving him exactly what he wants—a heated denial that would serve to prove his point, or me admitting he’s right, which would also prove his point. I just shake my head.

“Why did you text me tonight?” I ask instead. I pull my knees up and rest my arms on top.

“I wanted to see what you’re up to.”

I give him an incredulous look. “You don’t have a life, do you? First, you spent your Saturday morning at the Unicorn Café bothering me and meeting your sister-in-law, and now you’re spending your Saturday night calling a stranger because you have nothing better to do.” A genuine smile lifts my cheeks. “And here I thought fancy billionaire businessmen had more important things to do with their time.” I laugh. It feels good to be making fun of him, finally, after he’s been laughing at me for the majority of our exchanges today.

“Ah, that’s better. Just keep laughing, Spitfire, even if it’s at my expense.”

My laughter dies. Is he serious? He’s still smiling, which is something, and he doesn’t look pissed. “It’s true, isn’t it? You don’t have a life,” I say, gentler.

“I have my work and my boats on the coast and at the lake. But you’re completely right. I haven’t given myself much of a life over the last year and a half. Today was the first Saturday I didn't spend working at least part of the day in…damn, I don't know how long it’s been. I texted you because it gave me something to do other than turn back to work.”

My face softens at his admission, but I don’t let him off that easily. “You really have to get a life. How depressing. God, I wouldn’t want to end up like you in ten years.”

“You were working today, so you’re already on your way to becoming me,” he says, arching a dark eyebrow.

“That’s not the same thing,” I protest. “I had a last-minute story to write. I don't work every weekend.”

“And what were you up to tonight? Looks like you’re home, just like me. Again, your odds aren’t looking good. You’re definitely going to end up a workaholic without a life at thirty-five just like me.” His smile is devilish, popping the slightest hint of dimples into his cheeks that are far too enticing and I hate the way they look. They’re lickable, and that’s ridiculous on a grown man without a life. Payton is ridiculous.

“I’m not home every Saturday night. I have a life.”

“You’re just being contrary now. Prove you have a life. Do you have a boyfriend?”

“What? No. I don’t date. Why would you even ask me that? I don’t have to prove anything to you,” I snap, my defenses rising higher as I grow flustered. “You’re annoying. Has anyone ever told you that, or does everyone try to kiss your ass because you have more money than God and they want to ride your coattails or get something out of you?”

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