by Jill Shalvis
close to her table again and stole a glance at Tanner.
He was smiling. “Cute,” he said.
She blew out a breath. “I was in a hurry.”
“No, I mean it,” he said. “Cute.”
Cute? Puppies and rainbows were cute. Once upon a time she’d spent far too many hours dreaming about him finding her so irresistibly sexy that he’d press her up against the wall and kiss her senseless.
And he found her cute.
“Maybe you should steer clear of the dangerous powdered sugar doughnuts next time,” he said. “In case there’s no one around to rescue you.”
“I like to live dangerously,” she said, and because this was such a ridiculous statement, not to mention wildly untrue—she lived the opposite of dangerously and always had—she laughed a little.
He smiled at her, and it was such a great smile it rendered her stupid and unable to control her mouth. “You don’t remember me.”
“Sure I do,” he said, and pushed away from the table as he stood. His gaze met hers. “Seriously now. Be careful.”
And then he headed to the door.
Nope. He really didn’t remember her. Still, she watched him go.
Okay, so she watched his fantastic butt go. After all, she was mortified and maybe a little bit pissy to boot, but she wasn’t dead.