Page 37 of The Sadist and the Brat

He stayed where he was, holding her gaze for a moment, then eased back, slid his pie in front of him again, and picked up his fork.

“Shit, Jack.”

He forked up a bite, enjoying the combination of tart and sweet on his tongue. “Now that I’ve answered your question, how about you answer mine?”

“What was it again?”

He didn’t bother hiding his smile this time. She looked thoroughly befuddled. “What’s your hesitation?”

“Oh.” Sadie picked up her fork, running it through her fingers. “I thought you didn’t like me.”

That got his attention. “And why is that?”

She shrugged and stabbed at her slice of lemon meringue. “You think I’m a brat.”

“You are a brat,” he replied, amused now.

“You don’t like brats,” she mumbled around a mouthful of pie.

“Who told you that?”

She swallowed. “I inferred. You know, from all the glaring and head shaking and disapproving frowns.”

He took another bite of pie, chewing slowly to give himself time to consider. She was watching him with narrowed eyes, but he could see the vulnerability—and the fear—lurking in her gaze.

He didn’t mind the vulnerability, but the fear had him treading carefully.

“You know what they say about making assumptions,” he drawled, and forked up more pie.

“It’s not an assumption, it’s an observation,” she told him.

“Hmmm.”

“Don’t start that again,” she warned him, but she was smiling behind her coffee cup. “Okay, I’ll play with you.”

“Just like that?” he asked and tried not to grin with sheer delight.

She picked up her fork and went back to work on her pie. “Would you like a formal engraved invitation?”

“Not necessary.” He nudged his plate aside and reached for his coffee. “The limits list I requested, however, is.”

She started to roll her eyes, then seemed to think better of it and reached for her purse. “I’ll send it to you now, all right?”

He enjoyed his doctored coffee while she rummaged through her purse. “Is it current?”

“I updated it at the end of the summer.” She frowned into her bag. “Dammit, where’s my phone?”

He watched, bemused, as she began taking things out of her purse and piling them on the table. A small makeup bag, keys, a bright pink wallet, two tubes of lip balm, a handful of pens and the package he’d found at her door were accompanied by a veritable avalanche of receipts.

“Aha!” She held up her phone, triumphant, then set it aside and began to shove everything back into her bag.

“Do you need all these receipts?” he wondered, plucking one from the pile. It was from a drug store, dated a month ago, with condoms and a Snickers bar the only purchases.

“No,” she said, distracted. “I shove them in there just in case I have to return something and forget about them.”

He let the receipt flutter to the table. “So why are you putting them back?”

“I can’t leave them on the table,” she said, and this time she didn’t abort the eye roll.

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