Delilah groans. “You are so twisted. I love it.”
“Don’t act like you’re not right there with me.”
“True. I am a slut for primal energy.”
She pauses, then adds, “Speaking of which?—”
“No.”
“Come on. Tell me it wasn’t hot when The Puckinator called you a brat.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not going anywhere near Auguste Broussard unless it’s for work. Period.”
“Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that.”
I am and I will.
The next morning,I step out of the building and stop dead in my tracks.
Auguste is leaning against his sleek black Lexus, hoodie up, coffee and muffin in hand like it’s totally normal to be waiting outside someone’s door like that.
He straightens as I approach. No sign of a smile on his face. “Courtney.”
“Broussard.”
He clears his throat. “About yesterday?—”
“What about it?” I stand tall, hands gripping my hips so I don’t give him the pleasure of snatching breakfast out of his hands.
“When… umm…”
“When…? When you ignored me? Or when you looked at me like I snapped your stick in half and pissed in your Gatorade?” My voice is flat. Ice-cold. Controlled, but I’m vibrating hot under my skin.
That twitchy, unsettled feeling makes it hard to keep my breathing steady when he comes closer.
“Grumpy asshole doesn’t even cover it,” I go on, pushing my finger into his chest now. “You were a walking tantrum with a god complex.”
Auguste just smiles. Like I haven’t just eviscerated him in broad daylight.
“Didn’t realize I left that strong of an impression,” he says, soft and unbothered.
My stomach twists.
“Don’tflatter yourself.”
“Too late.” He tilts his head slightly. “I’ve got the complex, remember?”
I hate how calm he is.
Like yesterday didn’t happen. As if he didn’t ice me out in front of half the team and make me feel like a damn leper for just doing my job.
And now? Now he’s all smooth edges and gentleman smirks, and it’s only making me fume.
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he says, stepping closer again, his voice dropping a fraction, “here you are.”
The air between us tightens.