single. You know who I’m talking about, Kavanagh.
“You’re one of the man whores.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
A MAN ... WHAT ? Finn gaped at Magdalene’s profile as she turned away to lounge in the driver’s seat, casually draping her left wrist over the steering wheel. Did she just call him a
man whore
?
Temper sparked. Because, what the fuck? She’d known him five lousy minutes in the greater scheme of things and thought she had him all figured out? Well, excuse the hell outta him if that hacked him off some. Only one thing prevented his spark of ire from racing up a line of black powder to explode all up in her face.
He couldn’t claim she was completely wrong. He had made avoiding commitments—and, yeah, sue him, getting laid as often as possible—a priority from the time he was about seventeen. Until recently it hadn’t occurred to him to even question his habit of holding himself romantically aloof.
And if that wasn’t enough, in his head he could hear his sister Hannah laughing her ass off, then wheezing between raucous whoops of hilarity, “Oh, God,
man whore
. She sure nailed it in one with that description, didn’t she, boyo?”
Still
. The spark might refuse to set off an explosion, but it didn’t simply vanish in a puff of harmless smoke, either. Hannah was family; since first memory they had taken turns insulting and knocking each other off their respective high horses.
She
was allowed to dent his pride, because he knew her bottom line was she would always have his back.
Little Ms. Magdalene, on the other hand, didn’t know him for shit.
Well, two could play this game. He felt as though he, too, had a decent grasp on her less desirable characteristics. He opened his mouth, ready and willing to pepper her with them like buckshot.
Only to notice that maybe she wasn’t as insouciant as she appeared. When he looked closely, in fact, he could see how rigid her left leg was and how hard the foot on the end of that leg pressed against the floor on the far side of the brake pedal.
Almost as if she were bracing for him to take his best shot.
It made him remember that, unlike him, she probably hadn’t had a lifetime of someone having her back. Which was not to say he felt duty bound to give her a free pass to take potshots at him. Hell, no; screw that.
He slid over and even as he stopped to leave space between their bodies, he slipped his arm the rest of the way along the top of her seat until he could tiptoe his fingers across the cap of her shoulder. He plucked up a strand of her braid-wavy hair and rubbed its ends between his finger and thumb. “Jealous, Magdalene?”
She whipped her head around, yanking the strand free. “How many times do I have to tell you my name is Mags?” she demanded. “And jealous of what?” She gave him a look that said, “One of us is deluded, Jack—and it’s not me.”
He picked up another thicker tendril and wrapped it around his forefinger, bringing his hand closer and closer to her face, until he could trace the whorl of her ear with his fingertip. “Of the fact,” he said in a low voice, leaning near, “that I have had lots. And. Lots. Of s-s-ssex.” He breathed the final word directly into her ear.
Which, okay, probably wasn’t his smartest move. Not when it brought him close enough to smell the sunshine in her hair and the healthy Mags scent of the rest of her. “But, hey, don’t you worry, darlin’,” he said as if running off at the mouth would somehow negate his awareness. “I can always make room for one more.”
He didn’t need the scream of outraged she-relatives in his head to know he was out of line. But he’d say this for Mags, she lost that stiffness he’d noticed and turned to face him, cool as you please. Ignoring his hand now firmly entangled in her hair, she gave him a long, slow once-over.
“Tell you what,
darlin’
—and what’s with your constant use of that word anyway? Is it just a sly way of dodging ever having to
“You’re one of the man whores.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
A MAN ... WHAT ? Finn gaped at Magdalene’s profile as she turned away to lounge in the driver’s seat, casually draping her left wrist over the steering wheel. Did she just call him a
man whore
?
Temper sparked. Because, what the fuck? She’d known him five lousy minutes in the greater scheme of things and thought she had him all figured out? Well, excuse the hell outta him if that hacked him off some. Only one thing prevented his spark of ire from racing up a line of black powder to explode all up in her face.
He couldn’t claim she was completely wrong. He had made avoiding commitments—and, yeah, sue him, getting laid as often as possible—a priority from the time he was about seventeen. Until recently it hadn’t occurred to him to even question his habit of holding himself romantically aloof.
And if that wasn’t enough, in his head he could hear his sister Hannah laughing her ass off, then wheezing between raucous whoops of hilarity, “Oh, God,
man whore
. She sure nailed it in one with that description, didn’t she, boyo?”
Still
. The spark might refuse to set off an explosion, but it didn’t simply vanish in a puff of harmless smoke, either. Hannah was family; since first memory they had taken turns insulting and knocking each other off their respective high horses.
She
was allowed to dent his pride, because he knew her bottom line was she would always have his back.
Little Ms. Magdalene, on the other hand, didn’t know him for shit.
Well, two could play this game. He felt as though he, too, had a decent grasp on her less desirable characteristics. He opened his mouth, ready and willing to pepper her with them like buckshot.
Only to notice that maybe she wasn’t as insouciant as she appeared. When he looked closely, in fact, he could see how rigid her left leg was and how hard the foot on the end of that leg pressed against the floor on the far side of the brake pedal.
Almost as if she were bracing for him to take his best shot.
It made him remember that, unlike him, she probably hadn’t had a lifetime of someone having her back. Which was not to say he felt duty bound to give her a free pass to take potshots at him. Hell, no; screw that.
He slid over and even as he stopped to leave space between their bodies, he slipped his arm the rest of the way along the top of her seat until he could tiptoe his fingers across the cap of her shoulder. He plucked up a strand of her braid-wavy hair and rubbed its ends between his finger and thumb. “Jealous, Magdalene?”
She whipped her head around, yanking the strand free. “How many times do I have to tell you my name is Mags?” she demanded. “And jealous of what?” She gave him a look that said, “One of us is deluded, Jack—and it’s not me.”
He picked up another thicker tendril and wrapped it around his forefinger, bringing his hand closer and closer to her face, until he could trace the whorl of her ear with his fingertip. “Of the fact,” he said in a low voice, leaning near, “that I have had lots. And. Lots. Of s-s-ssex.” He breathed the final word directly into her ear.
Which, okay, probably wasn’t his smartest move. Not when it brought him close enough to smell the sunshine in her hair and the healthy Mags scent of the rest of her. “But, hey, don’t you worry, darlin’,” he said as if running off at the mouth would somehow negate his awareness. “I can always make room for one more.”
He didn’t need the scream of outraged she-relatives in his head to know he was out of line. But he’d say this for Mags, she lost that stiffness he’d noticed and turned to face him, cool as you please. Ignoring his hand now firmly entangled in her hair, she gave him a long, slow once-over.
“Tell you what,
darlin’
—and what’s with your constant use of that word anyway? Is it just a sly way of dodging ever having to
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