Sweet Rivalry (1001 Dark Nights)(13)

“You will be,” I quip, feeling a bit more on steadier ground now that we are engaged in the bantering we are most comfortable with.

He laughs again but the sudden sincerity in his smile and softening in his eyes as he stares at me takes me by surprise. “It’s been a long time, Harper.”

My mind is whiplashed from the change of pace and I hate that just when I feel like I’ve gotten my wits about me, he says something to knock them askew again. But even with a sudden about-face in the conversation, his words cause a smile to slide onto my lips and that little flutter in my belly to come to life. “It has.”

“It’s good to see you again.” He pauses and nods. The look on his face is unreadable. “You look good. The same but different.”

“So do you.”

“I’m still the same guy. You’re just seeing me through different eyes.”

I bite back my immediate dismissal of his words and wonder what he means by them. Have I changed that much? And if I have, how would he know it in the hours since we’ve reacquainted? “Perhaps.” It’s the only way I know how to answer.

His stare is unwavering as he gauges if my words are true. “Why the change in hair color?”

“Do you like it?” The question is out without thought and I hate that it appears I care if he likes the change.

“Yes.” He nods. “But I liked you as a brunette too.”

“Sometimes change is good. Sometimes it’s even needed.”

He studies me. “True.” He draws the single word out as if he’s trying to figure out what I mean so I say something quick to prevent him from drawing his own conclusions.

“Why the beard?” Crap. That wasn’t obvious or anything. First thing off the top of my head and it’s that. Lovely.

He shrugs nonchalantly, which is in direct contradiction to the knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Do you like it?”

Dear God, he’s really going to ask me that after he knows damn well I do after he caught me staring?

I stutter over an answer. Can’t find one other than a quick nod with a tight smile as once again he’s left me rattled by being nothing but himself. Feeling this way in my early twenties was one thing, but I’m a grown woman, confident in my professional abilities and in my sexuality. I should not be rattled by anyone.

Least of all him.

But I am.

“I should get back to work.” I make the excuse knowing damn well I don’t want to talk about his beard anymore––or stare at it or think about it and its oh-so-good-burn––and least of all with him. “Was there something you needed?”

“Nope. Not. A. Thing.” His voice is slow and certain and yet he doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away. Just stares with questions in his eyes I can’t quite read and am not sure I really want to.

“Then stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop staring at me. Can’t you look somewhere else?”

When he smiles this time, I notice the hair around his mouth bends with its curve upward, and it takes all I have to look up to his eyes. “We sit five feet across from each other, Harp. You’re in my line of sight. Besides…” He shrugs. “You’re far from a hardship to look at.”

My mind stumbles over his comment. It freezes. Then refires. Did he just say what I think he said?

“First off, Ryd, you’re standing and not sitting, so the solution to this little problem is that you can walk anywhere else in the room and stare just as easily. There’s a window over there and a whole city below. Why don’t you try that? I’m sure that’s more satisfying, more inspiring than looking at me. And another thing, don’t call me Harp,” I add for good measure before looking back down to make incoherent notes on my pad of paper, unsure why I’m mad at him all of a sudden other than the fact that he keeps flustering me and I’m not easily flustered.

And it’s driving me crazy.

“Still hostile, I see.”

“Still an *, I see,” I mutter but know he can hear it.

“You’re right. My apologies.”

My eyes flash back to his, stare and search for the sarcasm there and see nothing but candor. The sarcasm would have been easier to deal with. “You know what? Quit being like that.”

“Like what?” His face is a mask of innocence.

“Like. That.”

“A little more help would be appreciated. How about an adjective or two? You know, a descriptive word?”

“Nice. There’s an adjective for you.”

“You say nice like it’s a bad thing,” he muses with a lift of one eyebrow, and the singular action only serves to infuriate me further.

“It is when it’s coming from you.”

“I’ll remember that. I’ll be sure to be an * from now on then. Just to you, though.”

“You do that,” I say with a flippant nod and my every nerve irritated and turned on by him simultaneously.

“So that’s how you’re going to be, huh?” He raises his eyebrows.

“Were you expecting anything different?”

Our eyes hold across the office space. They war over who’s going to take the next step in this sweet rivalry of a dance we’re slowly remembering the steps to.