Confetti Hearts (Confetti Hitched, #1)(18)

I flush. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” I don’t know why I didn’t. Maybe it’s because I just wanted to get to know him, and names and titles can often interfere with that.

I’m expecting a tart retort, but he just grins at me and goes back to examining the huge photograph on my wall. “That’s Lake Windermere.”

“How do you know?” He intrigues me in a funny way I’ve never felt before.

“I grew up near there. Do you like it there? You must do, if you have a photograph of it.”

I shrug. “I was there on business, so I didn’t see a lot of the area, but I was passing a small gallery that was showing a local photographer’s work. I saw that and had to have it.”

“Why?”

I blink. “Well, he’s gone on to great things, so the artwork has appreciated in value.” I stop as he blows a raspberry. “What?” I snap.

“That’s not why you bought it.”

I’m torn between irritation and amusement because this cocky young man is so irreverent and all the more charming because of it. “And you’d know that, how?”

“Because you’ve hung it here where you’ll see it every day. That means it’s important to you.” He looks at the photo curiously. “Tell me why,” he commands.

I repress a smile at his bossy tone and look at the photo. It’s a beautiful black-and-white shot of the lake, showing the reflection of the sky in the water. It’s simple, stark, and absolutely stunning, and I’d paid a fortune for it without a second thought.

“Because it looks like it’s showing another world in the reflection. A secret, serene world where everything is reversed, and every time I look at it, it gives me happiness and peace.” I shut my mouth with a snap, unable to believe I just told him that.

He offers me a wide smile as if I’ve pleased him and goes back to staring at the photo. I’m unable to tear my eyes away from him. He’s just as stunning as the picture, with his shiny black hair and blue eyes, and I have the same instinctive reaction towards him as I did the artwork—this desire to possess him, to own him for myself.

“I have a deadline,” I say quickly, shying away from my incredibly alarming thoughts.

He pouts, but it’s belied by his merry eyes. “It’s been medically proven that forensic accountants need more fresh air than normal human beings.”

“I must have missed that study. I can’t think how that happened.”

“Maybe you were reading—” He picks up a piece of paper on my desk. “Traddon Industries. Maths. Blah blah blah.”

I roll my eyes and grab it from him, settling it back on the pile while fighting the urge to laugh. It’s never far from the surface with Joe.

“So now you know I’m not coming with you, how about you hand over my grub?”

He comes close, and I catch the fresh scent of the outdoors and the spiciness of his cologne. It’s expensive and subtle, and makes me want to nuzzle my nose into his neck and breathe him in.

“Surely you can spare a little time for a walk? The park’s just over the road. We could have a stroll, and you can get some fresh air.”

His eyes are the colour of a robin’s egg, and beneath the fun, I sense concern. It’s a bit of an anomaly to me. Not many people bother themselves with how hard I work. And it’s the concern that makes me waver. Well, that and the fact that it’s been a week since I saw him for our strange but enjoyable date. Not a date, I remind myself and try not to tot up how many hours I’ve spent thinking about him since then and how many times my hand has reached for the phone.

His eyebrow climbs, and I realise I’ve been silent for too long. I brush my hand through my hair to cover my agitation. “Would that be another meeting?” I finally drawl.

“An assignation,” he corrects me. “And just look on it as an extension of the first one, seeing as I didn’t feed you properly then.” I give in and chuckle at the wry look on his clever face. Sensing weakness, he straightens and grabs my suit jacket from the coat stand. “Come on,” he coaxes. “Let’s go.”

“How is it that you’re here?” I grumble, standing up. “Don’t you have brides to marry?”

“I don’t actually marry them, Lachlan,” he says, holding up the jacket for me to slide my arms into. “That would make me straight and bigamous, and I’m far too pretty for jail.”

“You are that,” I say as I put on the jacket. I turn around and catch his face between my palms. His skin is warm beneath my fingertips, and I give in to impulse and stroke the tight skin over his cheekbones, tracing a path over a few freckles while he watches me, his eyes bright and warm and rapidly filling with lust.

Leaning in, I rub my lips over his, and they part instantly. I send my tongue inside to tangle lazily with his, but I can’t maintain casualness when heat immediately roars through me. It seems to happen with him every time and it’s disconcerting. I sleep with men, and it’s hot and great but nothing more. We get off and we part ways and I like that. But I find myself wanting more with Joe, and it unnerves me a great deal.

I pull back reluctantly and see with satisfaction that his clever eyes are now hot and wanting. I pat his cheek and step away, but as I do, “I’m sorry,” falls from my lips.