Page 43 of Not On Your Life

But he doesn’t laugh or joke about my fear. Instead, he studies me. “I’m terrified of bounce houses,” he says, his expression deathly serious.

And now I’m the jerk laughing. “What?” I splutter.

“They’re scary.” His shoulders shake and amusement flickers across his eyes. “Have you ever wondered why they make the doors in those things tiny?”

“For the kids?”

“No. It’s to trap anyone stupid enough to enter inside.”

“Or to prevent children from falling out and getting hurt.” I lift a brow, my lips twitching. “Have you been trapped inside a bounce house?”

He scratches his beard, and I catch a faint blush working up his neck. “Once. It was only for a few minutes, but it was long enough to create lifelong trauma.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. I want to ask more about it, but before I can, my stomach growls so loud it might actually alert someone to come to our rescue.

Connor smiles, and perhaps I’ve been downplaying his looks a bit. He has a nice smile. A nice face, really.

He’s attractive, okay?

“Hungry?”

“A little.” I shrug.

He digs in his pocket and pulls out a Snickers, holding it in front of me. “Here.”

My denial is immediate. “I’m fine.” But my stupid stomach has other plans and growls again.

He raises his brows. “Really? So I should eat it?”

He wouldn’t really eat that in front of me, would he?

Of course he would. This is Connor. My self-proclaimed nemesis. The one I despise. “Go ahead.”

He sighs, his teasing grin melting into concern. “Come on, Maddie. Eat the candy bar.”

“I don’t eat chocolate.” He knows this. Or he did when we worked together. He tried to get me to eat all sorts of unhealthy things.

Who tempts someone like that? Satan.

Connor, very cruelly, waves the temptation in front of my face. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“I’ll get slow,” I say immediately.

“Nope. Not from one Snickers. Maybe seven a day, every day for a month, but not one. Try again.”

“I’ll lose my hard-earned muscle.”

His eyes rove over my legs and I can feel the heat of his gaze branding every inch of skin.

“Trust me, that is”—he shakes his head—“not going to happen. Neither of those things are going to happen from eating one Snickers.”

He doesn’t get it. He’s not a woman. He could eat seven Snickers a day and still have a six-pack years from now, but that’s not the way my body works. I have to work for the body I want.

“You don’t have to diet,” he says.

I rub my legs to fight off the sudden chill. “I know.”

He studies me with hazel eyes that appear to see right through me. “So why?”