Page 5 of Dirty Roxie

“No. Not at all. In fact, architecturally, it’s quite stunning.”

“Why tear it down then?”

“Because that will hurt the man who built it the most.”

“Won’t buying it hurt him?”

“Not enough.”

She takes a long pull on her beer, her lips wrap around the edge of the bottle, and her tongue peeks out to grab a drop sliding down the neck. I can’t help but stare. Even though I don’t want to. And I hate myself the entire time I do it.

When she catches me, she winks.

I turn back to my laptop and begin clicking through emails, annoyed with myself for looking. More annoyed with her for catching me.

Click.

Delete.

Click.

Delete.

Dozens of emails, yet none are the one I’m hoping will contain the answer I am looking for.

“What’d this guy do to you?”

I sigh. And close my laptop, clearing my throat and arranging my forearms on the table, giving her my undivided attention, since she has no intention of leaving me alone until I do. “He made me angry.”

She scoffs. I raise my brows in response.

“No offense, but even in the brief time I’ve known you, I can tell you’re a guy who gets angry often.”

“I don’t get angry often.” When I do, it’s obvious for sure. But I pride myself on remaining even-tempered, especially in business dealings.

“Sure you do. Every time I see you, you’re angry about something.”

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe there’s a correlation?”

She throws her head back and laughs, a deep and hearty sound. “What? Are you saying that I make you mad?”

I look at her pointedly.

“No, that did not occur to me,” she says, then gets up and walks toward the minibar at the rear of the cabin, head tilted back, finishing her beer as she goes. She tosses the empty bottle in the recycle container and opens the fridge for another. Holding a fresh bottle up, she asks, “Want one?”

I start to stay no out of habit. I rarely drink beer, preferring scotch, but a beer sounds good right now. She smiles when I nod.

“I’d like a chilled pint glass, please.” I motion to the freezer.

“Of course you would.” She gets the glass, hip checking the freezer to close it again, pops the tops off both bottles, and somehow pours mine as she walks back to the table. Setting both the bottle and chilled glass in front of me, a perfect head on the brew.

“Impressive.” I raise my glass in her direction and wait for her bright green eyes to meet mine.

“Bartender.” Her eyes sparkle as she talks, making me want to know if they always do that, or just when she’s around me.

I smile at that—the idea that her eyes sparkle around me, and her one-word retort. The latter mostly because I forget about that part of her life, remembering only the vigilante sharpshooter is on a mission with me.

“You are a conundrum, Ms. Stevens.”