Free Filfthy by Winter Renshaw

and my lips are fighting for a chance to twist into a grin a mile wide.
    I don’t know myself right now. Who is this woman allowing herself to be charmed by a professional charmer?
    “Stop being so damn stubborn.” His voice is lower now, his gaze so intense I can’t look away. And maybe I don’t want to. “We can watch a movie. Maybe order pizza. Shit. I don’t know. What do you like to do?”
    My head tilts as I examine his face. “Why do you want to hang out with me?”
    “Look, I feel bad about earlier. Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Sure as hell didn’t expect you to go running off like that.” He chuckles. Once. “I guess I thought a girl like you would be used to men coming onto her. Figured it happens quite a bit. I don’t think I’ve ever scared a woman off before.”
    “I wasn’t scared,” I say. And his flattery is working.
    Sort of.
    Damn him.
    “Okay, scared you off, pissed you off, whatever.” He lifts a hand.
    “Where I’m from, men don’t act like that. No man in Rixton Falls would ever flat out tell a woman he thinks she wants to fuck him.”
    “That’s in New York state, right?” he asks.
    I nod.
    “Then I beg to differ with you on that one. I know a lot of assholes from up north.”
    “They’re probably from the city. Upstate small towns are a bit less . . . progressive when it comes to that sort of thing.”
    “That explains a lot.” Zane lifts his thumb beneath his chin as he stares hard. “You’re a small town girl. I’m a city boy. We’re speaking two different languages here. Maybe that’s our problem.”
    I laugh. “I don’t think that’s our problem. At all. That’s cute though.”
    His nose scrunches. “Cute? God. Don’t ever call me that. Jesus, Delilah, I’m from Chicago. Grew up on the streets of the Southside. Men aren’t cute. You’re going to make me lose my street cred if you keep calling me that shit. I worked hard for that, too.”
    “Street cred? Yeah, I don’t think you need that in Laguna Palms. Your street cred is no good here.” I punch his arm lightly. “I go to school in Chicago, by the way.”
    “Rue told me.”
    Of course she did.
    Zane focuses on me, his smile fading. “Seems like every time we take a step forward we take five back.”
    I laugh. “Yeah.”
    “Why do you think that is, doc? Analyze that.”
    Lifting a finger, I can’t resist the urge to correct him. “I’ll be a licensed social worker, not a psychologist. Or a psychiatrist. Not a doctor.”
    Zane rolls his maple-honey eyes. “Who cares? Just answer the damn question. Why’s it so damn hard for us to get along for more than five minutes?”
    He’s so close I can smell his cologne. Sensual. Mossy. Intoxicating.
    It makes me think of the way his skin might taste, the way the warmth of his body would feel rubbing against me, what it would feel like to be pinned beneath him, tangled up in sheets, his fists in my hair.
    I shake my head, snapping out of it. “Because we have different agendas.”
    “Oh yeah? What’s mine?”
    “To fuck the girl next door.”
    “And yours?”
    “To not get fucked over by the boy next door.”
    Zane’s hand finds my waist, and he pulls me against him. My heart thrums so fast, I’m convinced it’s going to burst through my chest.
    “Would it be the worst thing to happen to you this summer?” His minty breath grazes my lips. “To let me take you to bed?”
    “ Take me to bed ? What, are you an aristocrat all of a sudden?”
    “Okay, fine. Would fucking me be the worst thing to happen to you this summer?”
    “Possibly.”
    “That’s too bad.” His head cocks to one side. “Because I think it’d be pretty fucking incredible.”
    My lips are parted, almost silently pleading for him to kiss me despite my stubborn resistance. Both of his hands grip my waist now, and my body is flush against his in the center of Great Aunt Rue’s foyer.
    “It’s a summer I’d remember as long as I lived. That’s for damn