As she reads, her smile erases itself.
“Nice to meet you, Griffin.” Her voice is heavy. “I’m Joy.”
7
Joy
Well, that’s a bit of a downer.
To say the least.
Honestly, I was getting a bit excited—and by excited, I do mean down there—at the possibility of both shopping for sweets and aimlessly exploring with this handsome man.
Both of those might be euphemisms.
But the point is this—a little diversion with no strings, no ties, might have been fun. Something to keep me busy on the occasional evening while I focused on work during the day. But now . . .
“You’re really Griffin?” I ask, each word coming out stilted.
“You’re really Joy?” His voice is leaden.
I point to my chest. “Your client.”
He taps his breastbone. “Your translator.”
I flash him a wan smile. It’s reflected back at me.
Griffin blurts out, “You don’t look like a chemist.”
My brow knits. “What does a chemist look like?”
He scrubs a hand across his jaw, and the look in his blue eyes—concern, worry—tells me he realizes he just goofed. “I just meant . . .”
“Oh, please. Do tell me what you meant.” I rest my chin on my joined hands and bat my eyes. I’m baiting him, but I want to make sure he’s not a sexist pig. The last thing I want is for the guy who’s about to become my mouthpiece to have some sort of issue with my job or role.
He stammers. “I just . . . didn’t think . . .” He waves a hand at me. More precisely, at my chest.
“You didn’t think scientists had breasts?” I ask innocently.
He shakes his head in a flurry and lifts both hands in surrender. “No, no, no, no, no.” He fires off each denial like a round of ammunition. He stabs a finger against the tiny table, and it wobbles. “Also, I knew you were a woman since they gave me your name, so yes, I’m well aware that scientists can have breasts.”
Okay, so he’s not a chauvinist. I breathe a sigh of relief, and I think I know why he made the you don’t look like a chemist comment now, and I kind of can’t resist toying with him. It’s been so long since I had someone to spar with. Someone who wanted this kind of rat-a-tat-tat game of verbal badminton.
“You just didn’t think they’d be breasts you’d want to touch,” I say pointedly, because there’s no need to pretend we aren’t attracted to each other.
He blinks. His expression is curious, as if he’s trying to process the oddity of my remark. “You’re quite blunt, and it’s ridiculously attractive, so maybe you ought to stop that now.”
I laugh and decide to go easy on him. But only a little. “Stop being blunt? That’ll be mighty hard, but I’ll do my best. Maybe you can stop being ridiculously attractive, then, too? Sound fair?”
He laughs. “Absolutely.” He takes a deep breath, then meets my eyes. “Does that mean I’m forgiven for thinking your breasts are fantastic, or forgiven for thinking you weren’t a chemist?”
“Only if you admit you thought I’d have beakers with me, a white lab coat, and Coke-bottle glasses.”
“I don’t think I completely thought you’d look like a nerd, per se . . .” He sounds like he’s trying to avoid saying something.
I drum my fingers on the table and take a sip of my coffee. “What did you think I’d look like?”
He drags a hand through his hair. “I didn’t think you were a chemist because you’re fucking gorgeous, and I don’t know any gorgeous chemists so I suppose, yeah, maybe I did think you’d have a lab coat on, rather than a stun-me-with-your-stupendous-figure-and-incredible-eyes-and-pouty-mouth costume on.”
And for that, right there, I can’t be mad at him, not even a little. “You’re too much, and I wish you were still Archie,” I say, shaking my head, letting the reality sink in that the man I momentarily contemplated having a fling with is now most decidedly off-limits. I don’t believe it’s a written rule anywhere, but if there were, I’m pretty sure banging my translator would be in the chapter on Very Bad Judgment Calls.
He points a finger at me. “And if you think I’m stereotyping chemists, then you’re guilty, too, since you seem to think Brits all have stuffy names,” he says, as if he’s caught me on something as well. He straightens his shoulders, adopting an admonishing look.
“Because of Archie?”
“And Alistair and Rupert.” He crosses his arms. He’s too damn adorable.
“Fine, so we’re both stereotyping. But what’s the stereotype of a translator, then?”
He scratches his head. “Hmm. Good question.” He screws up the corner of his lips. “I suppose just tall, dark, handsome, and completely charming.”
I shrug. “Funny. I was going to say, ‘Good with tongues.’”
He laughs then leans across the table and whispers in that ridiculously sexy accent, “I’m very good with my tongue.”
Shivering, I let the innuendo waft over me. Then I try not to linger too long on mouths, or lips, or tongues, especially since we shouldn’t be going there. “I guess I’ll never know now.”
He frowns.
I let my shoulders sag. But then I adopt a smile. “Since we’re both stereotyping, I’m afraid I’m guilty, too.”
He lifts his cup and takes a drink. “How so?”
Breezily, I answer, “Naturally, with your tall-dark-and-handsome costume on, I thought you were a hot male model, and clearly I was wrong.”
As the waiter zips by, Griffin catches his attention and makes a scribbling gesture. “L’addition, s’il vous plait.” He returns his attention to me. “Question. Why do we need to say male model? As if I could be anything but a male model? Why not just model?”
“Models are usually women.”
“And chemists usually aren’t beautiful women I want to shag, but now suddenly can’t.”
Shag. Dear Lord. The way he says it, the fact that he says it, the sheer sexiness of that word in his delicious
