Bringing Home the Bad Boy (Second Chance #1)(32)

“Ace.”

She fell silent and tried to think of something to say. She didn’t think of a darn thing the entire time he sauntered, one foot in front of the other, to the desk, forcing her steps back until the backs of her knees collided with the chair. She sat with a rather ungraceful whump! and gripped the wooden arms. He abandoned his beer bottle, backed his butt against the desktop, and stood sentry over her, arms crossed.

Forcing her eyes from his long, strong legs encased in cargo shorts to the drawings on the surface next to them, she finally thought of something to say. “What did Gloria say about your new character?”

“You snarl her name when you say it.”

Crap. She did. She knew it. She played dumb anyway. “What do you mean?”

He remained silent, statue still.

“I like Gloria,” she argued, with herself apparently? but her voice was a little too high, making her sound like she was lying. To be fair, she wasn’t exactly lying, but Glo was sort of… blunt. Charlie didn’t do well with bluntness, preferring to smooth over the tops of subjects rather than plumb too deep.

“What is it about her that rubs you the wrong way?” His body choked the air between them, and she felt like he was looming. He wasn’t. Not really, but he was near. Too near for her to think.

I don’t like the way she rubs against you, she thought. But after an appreciative look at the man before her, what woman wouldn’t get as close to him as humanly possible?

His T-shirt ringed defined upper arms where the mane of the lion on one arm, and the broad rose petals on the other, poked out from beneath the hem of the short sleeves. His shorts were loose, but there was no mistaking the muscular thighs beneath them, or his visible and, oddly enough, attractive knees (who had attractive knees, anyway?). The whole of him was tanned from his time at the lake, his brown hair starting to lighten the slightest bit on the ends from being in the sun. His blue eyes were bright and eagle-sharp.

In short, Evan Downey was a tall, sexy, ridiculously attractive hunk of man. And having that gaze settled on oneself was enough to make any woman swoon, and enough to make Charlie, who’d known him for years and should be immune, forget what he’d asked her a second ago…

“Ace.”

Right. She remembered.

“The truth?” she offered, feeling sweat prickle her underarms.

He didn’t move an inch.

“Okay, well. Gloria’s… uh.” How to say this? “Do you think she’s a good role model for Lyon? Do you think him seeing you two…” She waved a hand while she thought of a way to say this delicately. “… Carry on the way you do is healthy for a seven-year-old?”

“Carry on? I don’t have a problem with it, no.” He watched her for a seemingly infinite amount of time. Continents could have shifted in the millennia that passed before he finally asked, “Do you?”

She reached for her glass and took a sip of peppery red. It did little to wet her throat. “No, of course not,” she lied to her wine.

Then the glass was gone, taken from her hand and placed on the desk next to his beer. She tucked her elbows into her sides and clasped her hands together. He dropped a hand on one of the chair’s arms and repeated the motion with his other hand. He was straight-armed and this time, yes, looming over her.

“Know what I think?” It was a question, but his question sounded like a command and not a question.

It was a question she had no interest in answering.

Digging around in her head, she nabbed the first topic she thought of—a topic that happened to be the one she’d brought up earlier. “I was thinking of Rae when you were cooking burgers on the grill. Do you remember the time we all—”

“That’s not how this is gonna go, Ace.”

His blue stare was so intense, she had to swallow twice before she eked out the word, “Sorry?”

But he was gone, had straightened from his loom and moved to the opposite side of the room where an easel with a huge, blank pad of paper waited for the touch of a talented hand.

He dragged a wheeled stool from there to the front of her chair. Like, right in front of her chair and sat. Then he grabbed her chair and rolled her until one of her bare knees was between two of his.

Her grip tightened on the chair’s arms when he reached past her to hold the rungs at the seat like a man in prison might hold the bars. He had her caged, his arms brushing her arms, his face inches from her face.

Her heart ratcheted up about a thousand notches.

With zero chance of escape, she could do nothing but stare wide-eyed at him and wish she had something to hold on to besides her crumbling resolve.

Words. She could hold on to words. Opening her mouth, she tried again to change the subject. “Is Asher going to play at the Starving Artists Festival? Because I have a friend who—”

“Not the way this is gonna go, either, Ace.” His intense gaze was on her like Blue on Bayou.

But she had to say something, because this was… unnerving.

Because it’s turning you on.

Especially for that reason.

“I’m sorry. I don’t think Gloria is good for you.”

His face morphed from intense to almost relaxed. Well, not relaxed, but the concrete set of his mouth had softened enough that she believed he might almost laugh. “Hell, I know that.”