Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

The ghost of a smile lifts the corners of his lips. It vanishes
when he says, “What happened with Deputy Dipshit?”
“We haven’t talked since that day you nearly ripped off his
head.” I pause. “Did I ever thank you for that?”
“No thanks were necessary. It’s a man’s job to protect—”
He cuts off abruptly and mutters, “Fuck.” Then he looks
away and says gruffly, “I should go.”
He’s uncomfortable. I’ve never seen him uncomfortable.
It’s oddly appealing.
I say softly, “You can’t just show up out of the blue and
leave ten seconds later. At least stay for a cookie.”
His gaze slides back to mine, and now it’s heated. “I don’t
want to keep you.”
He says it like that’s exactly what he wants to do: keep me.
If my face gets any redder, he’ll think I’ve burst a vessel.
Then he backtracks. “You’re baking cookies?”
“Yes. Well, they’re probably hockey pucks by now
because my oven’s a piece of junk, but I’ve got another batch
ready to go.”
“You bake?”
A prick of irritation makes me frown at him. “Why is that
so surprising? Do I look like I’m incapable of operating a
kitchen appliance?”
“I’ve never met a beautiful woman who bakes.”
I find that even more irritating. Because one, I don’t like
backhanded compliments, two, skill with baking has
absolutely nothing to do with a woman’s looks, and three, he
makes it sound like beautiful women are draped all over him
wherever he goes.
Which they probably are, but still. I don’t like the idea.
I say tartly, “And I’ve never met an eight-foot-tall debt
collector who launders money through real estate and flies a