Did I anger him?
“Are you questioning my sincerity?” There’s just enough hardness in his tone to make my heart thrum.
“No, of course not,” I say with a bashful giggle. “It’s just—”
He nods. “I get it. You’re a beautiful woman. I’m sure you get approached by men all the time.”
Ha. As if he had any idea. No one ever hits on Bryn Aitkens, daughter of the most vicious mobster in all of Scotland.
“Not quite.”
He frowns. “I’m shocked. I was going to say, you’re probably so used to men trying to hit on you under false pretenses,” he takes another bite of chicken before he continues, “that you’ve learned to question the sincerity of men.”
He does hit on a kernel of truth, though, and the validity of what he’s saying pings me straight in the chest.
I exhale a breath I didn’t know I held and decide I won’t lie to him. “Maybe I’ve learned to question the sincerity of everyone. Not just men.”
I’m a pawn in a game of life or death, just one of the many disposable pieces. But he can’t know that.
He gives me a grim smile. “I understand.” He blows out a breath. “More than you know. Now, tell me, Bryn. I really want to know.” His eyes hold mine. “Try me.”
The intensity in his eyes makes my stomach feel all melty. I let my gaze wander briefly over his beautiful, heartbreakingly handsome face, from the depths of his blue, blue eyes, to his perfect nose, to the fullness of lips that look like they’d know where to go and what to do.
I lick my lips. I swallow. And I give him the truth.
“My style could be best described as nouveau chic,” I begin, holding his gaze while I give him the pitch I’ve prepared for investors. “Essentially, I design modern-day apparel with a historical flair…”
This is usually where people begin to lose interest, where their eyes glaze over. He nods with sober curiosity, and gestures from the peasant-style top with the trim bodice and laced-up back I’m wearing, to the slim skirt that hits my ankles.
“Did you design your own outfit?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“Go on,” he says, and the way he says it makes it feel a bit like a command.
I go on. When I’ve finished, he’s leaning back in his chair, his fingertips placed together, and he’s wearing a curious expression.
“That sounds amazing,” he says. “I bet you’ve got buyers knocking down your door. The market must be hungry for such brilliant innovations in this day and age when everything’s factory-made and flimsy.”
I wince. “Not hardly. I haven’t had a buyer for much of anything since…” I sigh, giving him the whole truth. “Not since I sold half a dozen hair bows to a little church craft fair. Though I am finishing up a commission piece I’m proud of.”
“Really?” he says, brows raised. “Tell me more.”
So I do. I tell him everything about how I create my designs, what I plan next, my hope for expansion and how to hit the French market. I’ve never said any of this out loud, and I don’t know if I should laugh or cry. I’m not sure what it is about this man that makes me feel such a wide range of emotions all at once. Maybe it’s just that he’s paying attention. People rarely do.
“It’s just been… well, a very slow start,” I finish with a sigh.
“Every single successful business in the history of the world started off like that, though,” he says soberly.
“Every business?”
He shrugs and smiles. “Enough of them.”
I quietly take another sip of my smoothie, finishing it, then place the empty cup in my salad dish. He reaches for my tray. “I’ll get it.”
I watch as he rises with our trays and heads to the trash bin, just as a commotion picks up near the register.
“I’m sorry, those are the rules, sir,” the cashier says, frowning. “And if you don’t comply, I’ll be forced to ask you to leave.”
“That won't be bloody necessary,” the guy says, as he heads to the door. He pushes his way past several others in line, and literally bumps my table as he walks by. My energy bite falls to the floor, the container opening and the little pieces rolling underneath the table.
"Hey!"
"Oh, shut it. Hey yourself,” the arsehole mutters.
The next second, Mac is in my space, standing between me and this arsehole. Jesus, is he intimidating, all large and muscular and furious.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asks. “Terrorizing the entire store because you think the rules don’t apply to you?”
The prick turns to retort, then his eyes go wide at the sight of Mac. He glances at his neck, his shoulders, and sees something that makes him start.
“I was just leaving,” he mutters.
Mac steps closer to him, grabs him by the back of the shirt, and drags him toward the door. “Allow me to help you with that.”