Chapter 4

Harper

“You really don’t have to drop me at home.”

He grunts. “I told Phe I’d drop you home, and I will.” His voice is firm, his stance immovable.

“Damn, you’re a smooth talker, huh?” I narrow my gaze on him.

His lips twitch.

I do believe I coaxed a smile out of him. Maybe, there’s hope, after all.

I tell him my address, and he keys it in. Then he eases the car onto the road. Somehow, he’s driving me home, despite my best efforts to put him off. I have a feeling, once James Hamilton puts his mind to something, he always gets his way.

A few seconds later, he leans over and touches the screen on the dash. The Wrangler has clearly been fitted with upgraded tech.

The strains of classical music fill the space.

I look at him in surprise.

“You don’t seem like a classical music kinda guy.”

He tilts his head.

“Figured you more for rock or country, maybe.”

He scoffs.

I wait for him to elaborate further. When he doesn’t, I add, “Country music because you drive a Jeep, you know?”

“Hmph.” He slows to a stop at a traffic light.

He grips the steering wheel with those broad hands, and I can see the tension in every tendon, the white-knuckle hold of a man barely keeping himself in check. His spine is straight, shoulders square, jaw locked tight. He stares straight ahead like he’s facing down an enemy instead of an empty intersection. His profile could have been carved from stone, all harsh angles and unforgiving lines, beautiful in the way a professional chef’s knife is beautiful. Dangerous. Sharp enough to draw blood if you get too close. And God help me, I want to.

“Something to compliment your rugged, smoldering, intense personality.” Not sure why I blurt that out. Heat sears my cheeks.. My words give away that I’ve been studying him and forming an opinion about him. Which I have. But telling him so makes me feel vulnerable.

Maybe he won’t notice? But his next words disavow me of that notion.

“You came to that conclusion in the little time you spent with me?” he rumbles.

When I dart another look at his face, it’s to find his expression unreadable. I frown. His lack of expression makes it difficult to understand what kind of impact my words have on him.

“You’re right, I may have come to a premature conclusion.”

He grunts.

Which I take to mean that he agrees with me. Or maybe, not. Difficult to say when the man prefers to communicate with noises instead of words.

“I could, of course, get to know you better.” I cringe. Did I say that aloud? I must have lost the connection between my brain and my mouth.

There’s silence. The traffic lights change to green. He eases the car forward.

When he doesn’t reply, I squirm in my seat. This tall, dark, brooding, and silent persona of his makes me want to keep talking to fill in the gap. I manage not to… For a full minute.

Then I add, “Forget I said that. I didn’t mean it.”

No reply.

“I mean, I did mean it. But of course, you don’t have to spend time with me. It’s just… As you pointed out, I seem to have come to some conclusions which might not be accurate, so I thought it would be best if⁠—”

“Okay.”

I stare at him. Did I hear him wrong? “Did you say⁠—”

“Ice cream,” he snaps out.

“Excuse me?”

“Do you like ice cream?”

“Who doesn’t? But what’s that got to do with anything?”

He flips the indicator, slows down, then comes to a stop in front of an ice cream shop at the side of the road. One that’s still open and popular, judging by the people inside.

“Ah, ice cream.” Right. Again, not what I expected him to suggest. Or to pull up right away. Another way I’ve misjudged him, apparently.

When his lips twist, I realize he, too, must think the same.

He smirks. Then shoves his door open and steps out. I reach for my door handle, but he’s already rounded the car and opens it for me.

“Thanks.” I step out. He shuts the door and guides me with an impersonal touch at the small of my back. Doesn’t stop the goosebumps from peppering my skin.

We reach the shop, and he pushes the door open, then follows me in. He heads for the ice cream display case.

The woman behind it, who must be in her late twenties, stops what she was doing and walks over to him. “How can I help?” She gives him a big smile. Ugh, what a ho.

He turns to me, a question in his eyes.

I have the satisfaction of seeing her face fall.

“Strawberry and mango for me, please. In a cone. With sprinkles. And also, chocolate sauce.”

“Of course.” She tears her gaze off James’ face with obvious reluctance, then picks up a cone and proceeds to create my order.

She hands it over. Then turns to James and bats her eyelashes. “And what can I get you?”

A small smile plays around his lips. “A couple of scoops of your bitter chocolate ice cream. In a cup, please.”

Instantly, a hot sensation squeezes my chest. Nah, I can’t be jealous because he smiled at another woman? Also, bitter chocolate? Of course, that’d be the flavor he’d go for.

“Anything else?” She makes googly eyes at him. How obvious can she get? I resist the urge to snort.

“No, I’m good.” He doesn’t seem aware of how she’s angling to get his attention.

Man has no idea he’s a lethal, walking sex-machine, laying low any woman within a mile of his overwhelming presence.

She scoops the ice cream into a cup and hands it over.

“Thank you.” He takes it from her.

“No, thank you.” She holds onto the ice cream cup for a few more seconds than is strictly necessary, in my totally unbiased opinion.

When she finally let’s go, she flutters her eyelids. Jeez, is this woman for real?

She opens her mouth to ask something else, and I step in closer to James, enough to brush his arm with mine.

“Thanks. How much is that?”

“I’ve got it.” James pulls out his phone and taps it against the credit card reader she holds up.

With another nod in her direction, he pockets his phone, spins around, and heads for the door. He holds it open for me, then follows me out.

“You didn’t have to pay for my ice cream.”

He ignores me and unlocks the vehicle. Then walks around to hold the passenger door open for me. I slide in. He shuts the door, rounds the car and gets into the driver’s seat.

He holds up the cup of ice-cream and takes a bite out of it.

“You could have gotten a cone.”

“Eh?” He frowns.

“You’re eating from the cup like it’s a cone. You could have gotten a cone.”

He gives me a funny look, then takes a second bite out of the ice cream in his cup.

Only he would make eating ice cream into a competitive sport of manliness. I roll my eyes. “Right, that would have put a dent in that silent, macho thing you have going on, eh?”

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