“Um.” I swallowed. “What are you doing?”
“Watching you resist the urge to bolt.”
I was, in an irritating turn of events, doing precisely that. But since I wasn’t keen on sharing that with him, I locked my knees and held my ground. We were toe-to-toe, heavy black motorcycle boots to blush satin Manolo Blahniks. The room was dim, but a few weak shafts of late-morning sunshine were streaming through the window behind me, illuminating the angles of Graham’s face. He was so handsome, standing there amidst the dust motes and sun beams, it actually took my breath away. I covered my breathlessness by adopting a bitchy tone.
“Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t bolt in six hundred dollar stilettos.”
His eyes flickered down to my feet for the briefest instant. “Didn’t seem to stop you at the Fourth of July BBQ.”
“Those were wedges,” I said, again bitchily.
“Do I look like a man who cares about the intricacies of footwear?”
“A wedge is a platform, while a stiletto—”
“Glinda, fair warning, the only time I spare a thought to what a woman has on her feet is when she’s got her legs wrapped around me, wearing nothing but those heels as I fuck her into next week.”
My mouth fell open.
He didnotjust say that!
Did he just say that!?
“Pardon?” I squeaked.
Without bothering to respond, he stepped around me and walked deeper into the storage room, following the shelving units all the way to the back until he’d reached the sofa and mini-fridge area. “Do you have video surveillance back here?”
“Video surveillance?” I echoed, stupefied by the abrupt shift in topic. I was still recovering from hisfair warningand caught in the throes of conversational whiplash.
“CCTV.”
I shook my head, then realized he couldn’t see me and murmured, “No. I thought about putting in a few cameras in the shop but…” I shrugged. “I’m not really into the whole video surveillance thing. I barely have time to catch up on my Netflix shows.”
Graham grunted lowly. It was a grunt of grim acknowledgement, not surprise. I stared at his back as his head swung from the small window to the heavy black metal emergency exit door.
“Is this door alarmed?”
“Mildly perturbed, last I checked, but it’s been having a tough time lately. Feeling neglected, since everyone uses the front entrance with the pretty brass bells…” I trailed off when he shot me an unamused look over his shoulder. “No, it’s not alarmed.”
“Why not?”
“Does it matter?” I blinked at him. “Why are you asking me about all this?”
“Just answer the question.”
“It’s not alarmed because it doesn’t need an alarm, Graham Crackers. And I do meancrackersin the British sense of the word,” I declared, planting my hands on my hips.
He ignored my declaration. “Anyone could just walk in off the street.”
“No,” I said, growing less patient by the second. “It locks automatically when it closes, so no one can enter from the alley. You have to prop it open with a brick when you haul the trash to the dumpsters, otherwise you get locked out and have to walk all the way around to the front entrance.”
“Uh huh. And how often does that happen?”
“How often do I throw out our trash? Or how often do I accidentally get locked out while throwing out our trash?”
“Both.”
I stared at him for a beat, still not understanding why I was subject to this line of questioning, from Graham of all people, but also reading the steely determination in his gaze and realizing perhaps the fastest way to get rid of him was simply entertaining his delusion, speedily answering his questions, and then sending him on his way. So, heaving a sigh, I told him what he wanted to know.