Chapter Four
"COOKIES AND CREAM, " I answer, against my better judgment. What am I doing engaging with this man?
"Really?" His eyebrows rise slightly, his lips quirking in that infuriating half-smile. "I would've pegged you for vanilla."
The way he says it—like he's implying something about my personality—makes me bristle. "And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing at all, darling." He stretches the word 'darling' with that drawl of his. "Just making conversation."
"Stop calling me that," I snap, my patience wearing thin. "We're not friends, and we're certainly not... anything else."
His amber eyes gleam with amusement. "What should I call you then?"
"Nothing."
His smile widens. "Acacia then."
My eyes widen. "How did you—-"
"I took a look at the passenger list." He admits this so easily I'm not sure whether to feel amused or alarmed.
"Would you like to know what to call me?"
"Not really."
"Trust me, you will."
Why does this man sound so confident about it?
"And it's Ronan, by the way."
"I didn't ask," I snap.
"You don't have to," he says solemnly. "A true gentleman always knows how to anticipate a lady's needs."
His gaze dips low as he says this, and I'm mortified to feel my flesh swelling in response.
Sheep!
I burst to my feet in sudden and desperate need for distance. The farther I can get away from this infuriating man, the better.
But before I can take another step, he's suddenly blocking my way, and I glare up at him. "What the heck's your problem?"
"Are you trying to run away from me?"
"All I'm trying to do," I say between clenched teeth, "is to get to the restroom, so please don't flatter yourself."
"Are you afraid of me?"
My heart rate picks up even as I lift my chin. "Hardly."
"Then it has to be how I make you feel."
"You really love to flatter yourself, don't you?"
"Probably just as much as you love lying to yourself."
"I am not lying—-"
"Then why the red cheeks, darling?"
Oh, I've had enough of this!
I stare at him stonily. "Just get out of my way, will you?"
"Only if you say the magic word...and say it like you mean it, of course."
Seriously?
I step forward, fully intending to squeeze past him whether he moves or not.
At exactly that moment, the bus takes a sharp curve in the road. My balance, already precarious in my irritated state, completely abandons me, and the next thing I know, he's back on his seat...while I land directly in his lap.
Noooo!
The world narrows to the points where our bodies connect—his broad chest against my side, his arms encircling my waist, and most distressingly, the unmistakable hardness pressing against my thigh.
My breath catches. I know I should move. I know I should scramble away and put as much distance between us as possible. That would be the sensible thing to do.
But I don't.
I look up, finding his face inches from mine, those amber eyes now dark with desire. The playfulness is gone, replaced by something hungry and primal that makes my stomach tighten with an answering need.
"Acacia," he says, my name a rough whisper on his lips.
I swallow hard, my body betraying me with its response—the quickening of my pulse, the heat pooling low in my belly, the subtle arching of my back that presses me more firmly against him.
His hands tighten on my waist, and I can feel the restraint in his grip, the careful control he's exerting. He's waiting for me to pull away, to break this dangerous moment.
But still, I don't move.
My gaze drops to his lips, and time stretches between us.
The logical part of my brain is screaming at me to get up, to remember Claude, to protect myself from another mistake. But my body has other ideas, responding to Ronan's touch like a flower turning toward the sun.
I've never felt this kind of immediate, visceral attraction before. Not with Claude, not with anyone. It terrifies me—and thrills me in equal measure.
"If you don't move in the next five seconds," Ronan says quietly, "you'll come to know why I wanted you to know my name."
I let out a strangled gasp as the meaning behind his words hit me, and I can't jump off his lap fast enough.
Sheep, sheep, sheep!
Inside the small lavatory, I brace my hands on the sink and stare at my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed, my pupils dilated, my lips parted. I look like a woman on the edge of making a terrible decision.
"Get it together, Cay," I whisper to myself. "You know better than this."
But do I, really?
Claude's betrayal had blindsided me completely. I thought I was a good judge of character, but I'd been catastrophically wrong. What makes me think I have any idea what Ronan's game is?
Because that's what this is, isn't it?
Some kind of game.
No man looks at a woman the way he looks at me without wanting something.
The question is: what does Ronan want from me?
And more disturbingly: why am I so tempted to give it to him?