Page 41 of Hate Mate

WILLOW

“How did it get so late?”

I look up from the press release I've been fooling with, shocked to find the sky outside the window completely dark. “Oh, my God,” I murmur, laughing. “I had no idea.”

Sawyer chuckles before slowly unfolding his body from his leather chair. “You're a lot like me.”

“And how is that, exactly?” I ask, suspicious.

He groans, shaking his head. “You don't have to sound like I just insulted you, you know.”

“I didn't.”

“You kind of did.” He smirks while stretching, twisting from one side to the other before stretching his arms over his head.

Arms now only partially covered thanks to the polo shirt he's wearing. I've never seen him dressed so casually, and I sincerely wish the sight of his forearms wasn't so enticing. What is it about a pair of well sculpted forearms that turns me to jelly? They’re tan, too, thick, strong.

And here I am, biting my lip so hard I might break the skin.

“Are you hungry?” Somehow, he manages to make an innocent question sound anything but. Or maybe that’s my immature, out-of-control lust playing tricks on me.

Though he raises a good point. “Starving,” I admit with a sheepish grin. “Sometimes, I lose track of everything else when I'm working.”

“Which is what I meant, by the way, before you got insulted.”

“I did not get insulted.”

“So you say. Honestly, this would all be a lot easier if you would just be honest with me. You always have to treat everything like we’re in battle.”

Maybe I wouldn't have to if you hadn't scarred me psychologically. The retort is on the tip of my tongue, ready to spill out of my mouth, but I pull back at the last second. We won't get anywhere if this devolves into a full-out fight.

“I guess I've never reacted well to being teased.”

His features pinch like I’ve wounded him—or like a memory has. “Point taken. I was going to suggest we order dinner from downstairs if you'd be interested. The kitchen will still be open for another half hour.”

I should say no, shouldn't I? I should make up an excuse about having to go home. We've already spent too much time together today—there was no need for me to come in, but he insisted and even added that damn helicopter to boot. Wealthy people can do things like that. And here I am, playing into it, the way I always swore I wouldn't.

Though I can't pretend it wasn't sort of cool, being whisked away in a helicopter at a moment's notice. The sort of thing I might be able to get used to and even enjoy once I get over the absolutely terrifying sensation of floating in a tin can.

He’s waiting, expectant. “I don't know...” Just say no, you idiot. Tell him you have things to do and ask if you can take the helicopter back.

“You're considering turning down a free dinner?”

“You're the one paying me all this money. I can afford to buy dinner somewhere else.”

“Touché. But come on. Don't act like you didn't love that salmon you had on Friday. You practically licked the plate.”

“I did not!”

“Sure, if it makes you feel better. You didn't.”

“Oh, shut up.” But damn it, a giggle slips out before I can help it. He has a way of getting to me. I can't pretend otherwise.

“I thought you didn't like being teased.”

I'm actually glad he said it, the jerk. “See? There you go again. You never know when to let up. Always needing to take that extra step, to push just a little harder. And it's that impulse that's landed us here.”

“And there you go. Always dropping a lesson.”

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