His lips twitch, as though he finds that news vastly entertaining. “I know.”
“And, from your expression, I’m guessing Ishouldknow your name?”
He shrugs, not giving anything away.
“You’ve got courtside season tickets and a chauffeur. Only important people have chauffeurs – there’s a rule about it, somewhere.”
“Uh huh.” He grins.
I narrow my eyes on him. “So, who are you?”
“Who do you think I am?”
“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.” I sigh. “Give me a hint.”
He shakes his head, amused.
“Oh, fine!” I grumble, staring at him. “I’ll guess. Even though I’m terrible at this stuff.”
He chuckles softly again, and the sound makes me smile despite myself. Lifting one hand to stroke my chin, I adopt an expression of deep contemplation and pin him with a narrow-eyed stare. My eyes scan his jeans and t-shirt — which, at first glance appeared casual but after another look are clearly well made, likely designer — then move to the watch at his wrist, an expensive-looking silver Rolex that gleams even in the car’s low lighting.
Hmmm.
“Well, you’re attractive in a clean-cut, rich-dude kind of way,” I say, which makes his lips twitch again. “Not rough enough around the edges to be a rock star. Arrogant, but not in that loves-his-own-reflection way that models and actors have.”
He laughs outright, when I say that. “I thought you were an artist, not a shrink.”
“People watching is kind of my thing,” I say, grinning. “Well, that and cannoli fromMaria’sin the North End. Those are also my thing.”
His eyes join in the smile, crinkling at the corners. “I thinkMaria’scannoli are everyone’s thing.”
“Ah, so he likes Italian… is that a clue?Oh!I’ve got it – you’re a mob boss.”
“No.” His grin gets wider. “Though I probably wouldn’t admit to it, if I was.”
“Okay…. You’re a news anchor!”
“Try again.”
“You’re the mayor!”
“You don’t know what the mayor of Boston looks like?”
“Shut up.” My cheeks heat. “Do you want me to stop?”
“No, I’m enjoying your guesses.”
“Okay.” Fighting off a laugh, I force my face back into a serious expression. “You don’t have a scruffy beard, so you can’t be a Red Sox player, and while you’ve got some nice muscle action going on there—” I gesture vaguely at his chest and abdominal area. “—you don’t look like a Patriots linebacker, that’s for damn sure.”
“Are you insulting my manhood?”
“Only a little, tiny bit.” I laugh. “So, I’m guessing….”
“The anticipation is killing me,” he says drolly.
I shoot him a look. “You’re either a Kennedy, one of the Wahlberg boys, or Tom Brady’s secret younger brother.”
“Wow,” he says, his eyes wide.