"But it's okay for other girls?"
He strokes my hair off my forehead. "I've only ever been with ones who choose, Libby. At Marchant's, all the girls choose their clients. It's invitation only out there, I'm sure you know. They set their own prices. Get paid well. And most of them aren't doing it for altruistic reasons."
He strokes his calloused thumb over my lower lip, and I'm shaking. My insides have gone liquid. "You used to go out there," I whisper.
"I did."
"How come?" He cups my cheek, still gentle, but I can sense him closing off.
"I've got my reasons."
"But you could sleep with any girl."
Loosening his grip on me, he laughs, and I look up at him. "I'm glad you find me so appealing, Miss DeVille."
I blush. "Almost any girl."
His jaw drops open in a funny way, and I grin so hard I can feel the dimples in my cheeks.
"Is it because you like to keep your distance?" I ask.
“Wow.” He sort of chuckles a little bit. “Sneak attack.”
I shrug, because I didn’t really mean to sneak attack. I just felt like I had an opportunity. Pretense has never been stripped away like it is now between the two of us, so I figure I should take advantage of it.
Hunter seems to feel the same way. "Keep my distance?" He strokes up and down my cheek bone, and I feel hypnotized as I reach out and put my palm on his thigh. "What do you mean, keep my distance?"
My knees part a little as he steps closer, coming in between them.
"Do I strike you as a man who keeps my distance?"
"I don't mean that," I say, breathless. "I mean, no relationships."
"I have a better question: How is it a pretty girl like you's still got her V-card?"
"I'm not a girl," I whisper.
"No, you're not."
He leans down and covers my mouth with his, and I pull him close, feeling his hardness with a heady rush as he rocks his body into mine.
"You're a woman," he says, between hard kisses. "Goddamned gorgeous one at that."
My hands drift into the pockets of his jeans, and oh my God, that ass. It's tight and firm and everything a man's ass should be. I want to pull his jeans off. Squeeze it. Kiss it.
I'm panting, elated by his compliments, as he trails gently down my throat and kisses my collar bone.
"I'm like you," I whisper into his hair. "Want to keep my distance."
"Not doing a very good job of it," he pants.
He comes up for air, pushing his forehead against mine, so close that I can count the yellow flecks in his irises. "You know what I mean,” I murmur. “I don't want a relationship. I never do. I mean I never have."
His eyes change, going from aroused to something more shrouded as runs his fingers down my arm. "Probably your mother."
I lean back, stunned that he said that to me. "Probably so.” I guess I come off as the screwed-up daughter of a drug addict. Lovely.
"I'm only saying because I've had my share of therapy," he says, squeezing my hand before he walks back around the counter, to the oven. He opens it, and a heavenly sweet smell wafts out.
"You have?"
"Yes ma'am. Mostly when I was a kid."
"After your mother passed away?" It's a forward question, but then he's been forward with me.
Something passes over his face—something ugly. He covers it quickly and nods. "Something like that."
"Well you're probably right.” I lean against the bar, propping my head in one of my palms. “Relationships, other than with Suri and a few other friends—they just don't seem worth it to me.”
"That's because you don't want to get hurt."
"You're quite the Ann Landers, Hunter West. I'm shocked."
He looks at me without any trace of a smile. "I do write an advice column. Vegas High-Rolling. For the Las Vegas Sun News."
I gape, and he laughs. "You gotta be outta your f**king mind if you think anyone would give me a column." He sobers a little. "Pardon the French. I don't have the cleanest mouth."
"I'm sure you don't," I say coyly. I'm feeling a little more relaxed now, and happy to flirt with him, and willing to broach sensitive subject. Like: "So what's up with you and Priscilla?"
"Nothing but the sky," he says, pouring two tall glasses of orange juice.
"You don't care about her, but there's chemistry?"
"I don't care about her," he says flatly.
His eyes meet mine, and they're so cold, and all of a sudden it's painfully obvious to me that we're not really friends, or breakfast buddies, or anything at all. We don't know each other, and I've struck a bad cord with my prying question.
Hunter turns back to the stove and begins to pile two plates with food. When he speaks again, his tone is lighter. "I’ve got a question for you: weren't you even a little worried about who would win your heart?"
"Uh, yeah. My friend Suri kept joking that it would be someone old and slimy."
He smirks, piling scrambled eggs on two big, square plates. "Are you saying I'm over the hill?"
"I didn't know you'd swoop in to rescue me."
"That wasn't a rescue. Believe me." He checks the oven again, then shuts it. "Do your parents know?” He sticks his hands into his pockets and leans against the sink. “I assume not."
"They don't."
"I'm surprised your friends let you go through with it."
"I needed the money," I say. "And it was one friend. I didn't really let her argue."
"Well, I'm good for it." He rubs the bridge of his nose, like he has a headache.
"Do you win a lot at poker?"
"More in investments." He peeks into the oven one more time, and I think how sexy he looks in chef mode. "What kind of jam do you like?"
"Strawberry."
"I'm a strawberry man myself."
He slides the jar of homemade jam over to me, then puts the oven mitt back on and opens the oven, pulling out a tray of...
"Beignets! Holy crap, I love beignets!" He puts two on a plate and slides it across the bar, then puts two on his plate. He does not come around and sit beside me.
I pick one up and turn the hot pastry around in my burning fingertips. "You're incredible."
"You think so?" He regards me silently over the counter as he polishes off a piece of bacon, then says, "I know you're doing this for Cross Carlson. I'm not sure if I think you're stupid or amazing."