J.C. and the Bijoux Jolis (Blueberry Lane 3 - The Rousseaus #3)(10)

She’d learned enough French curse words at prep school to know that he’d just said, Shut your f*cking mouth, and she gasped softly at the lewdness of his language, wholly uncertain if he was talking to his sister or to her.

Only one thing was certain: J.C. Rousseau was a minefield of a man—nothing about him was simple or genuine. He was complicated and ruthless, smart and devastatingly sexual. And yet Libitz was drawn to him, fascinated by him, her body still throbbing, her heart still fluttering. Even now, both of them having rejected each other and exchanged insults meant to sting, she felt more raw lust for him than she’d ever felt for anyone.

In all her life, Libitz had never run from anyone, yet she felt an overwhelming urge to flee from J.C. Rousseau—to get away from him and never look back. It took all her strength to stand her ground and wait for him to hang up his phone so they could settle their business and go their separate ways.

“I’ll be there in five,” he spoke into the phone, still staring at Libitz with cold, narrow eyes. “You owe me.”

Without looking away from Libitz, he tapped on the phone and put it in his pocket. He was angry. She knew he was angry, yet his eyes seemed to soften a little as he tilted his head to the side and looked at her like he couldn’t quite figure her out.

“So that’s it?”

“That’s it. One kiss.”

“But it was good, n’est-ce pas?”

Her lips parted in surprise.

The unexpected gentleness in his voice caught her off guard, confused her, moved her even, but she’d already decided, long before this moment on a terrace in the moonlight, that J.C. Rousseau was off limits for her, and she had no interest in rethinking that conviction now.

She shrugged with ennui, hoping she looked much more dismissive than she felt inside. “I’ve had better.”

He clenched his jaw, his quick temper flaring, his last vestiges of patience or gentleness gone. “You’re a bitch.”

“I’ve been called worse,” she replied, refusing to let him see that his words stung.

“I feel sorry for the man that falls for you,” he lashed out, clenching his fists by his sides.

And though she didn’t take the time to dwell on it, somewhere deep in Libitz’s mind, she marked the moment, because his reaction felt…off. It felt far more emotional than it should be.

“That’s your prerogative.”

He sniffed, his expression mean. “You’re skinny, flat, hard, and cold. You’re not my type anyway.”

Her stomach fell, and she had to swallow forcibly over the lump that rose up in her throat, but she raised her chin and narrowed her eyes. “And you’re disgusting, egomaniacal, and think you’re God’s gift to women, but volume doesn’t equal skill.”

“So we basically hate each other,” he muttered.

“Pretty much,” she whispered.

Feeling strangely and unaccountably miserable, she gulped, unable to look into his eyes anymore. She glanced over her shoulder at the happy couples dancing in the ballroom, blinking her eyes rapidly.

“That said, my best friend just married your…”

She turned back to finish what she was saying, but he was already gone, a lone figure striding across the dark lawn, farther and farther away with every second.

Libitz took a ragged breath, reaching up to wipe at her eyes.

Wait. Tears? Tears for him when she almost never cried?

Oh, no. No, no, no. That was not okay.

“Stop it,” she hissed, closing her eyes and inhaling again, a smoother and deeper breath this time.

When she opened her eyes, he was gone from view. Her tears dried up quickly as she thought about the hateful words they’d exchanged, though surprisingly they didn’t bother her as much as they probably would another woman. They’d each said hurtful things, meant to prey on each other’s insecurities with a practiced finesse on both sides. In a strange way, they canceled each other out, and she almost marveled at the skill it took to verbally spar so evenly with someone. In a grudging admission of respect, she had to recognize that part of her—a very sick and cerebral part of her—had even enjoyed it, up to and including the insults he thought would hurt the most.

She took a deep, even breath and exhaled into the night.

All that remained now was the fading taste of him in her mouth and the throbbing of her heart as she thought about their kiss. The way her body had reacted to him—blossoming, opening, arching closer, reaching for him like she was a sunflower and he was the sun. She couldn’t remember ever responding to a man with such vulnerability, like they were plugged into each other in a way that was safe and real.

For just a moment, she wondered what it would have been like to give in…to sleep with him. And for that moment, her heart trembled with such unfulfilled longing, it almost flattened her, because…

You’re a bitch…and…we basically hate each other.

Now she’d never know.

But at least she’d been strong, and their anger toward each other would eventually fade, wouldn’t it? Of course it would. And in the meantime, she hadn’t f*cked her best friend’s brand-new brother-in-law, which meant that she had no regrets.

At least that’s what she told herself as she turned back to Kate’s wedding, walking into a room of joyful revelry with an unexpectedly heavy heart.