“No. Just snuck in and grabbed your stuff,” he said.

“Did you see any of them, up at the school?”

“Ros, I was trying to avoid them.”

“But you must have noticed if they were around. How were they going?”

“Same as usual,” he said, his eyes all over the task to hand. No way could the surface area of the pikelet handle that amount of honey. What a disaster waiting to happen. “They were arguing about who ate the last tin of canned chicken or something. You need to eat more. Go on, have another.”

He continued to stare at his well-laden pikelet. Honey dripped onto the side of his hand and he licked it up. Tongue lapping. Like a dog. Her belly did something odd. Because he revolted her. Not because there could be anything weirdly appealing about what he was doing with the sugary-sweet condiment coating his skin. The sure, strong swipes of his tongue were repugnant.

She shifted on the lounge, trying to get comfortable. No position worked. Her sex was still swollen and sensitive from earlier. Everything felt uncomfortable and in need of relief. Apart from a quick pee break, he didn’t seem to be interested in letting her out of his sight. Bastard. Five minutes of privacy was all it would take and he knew it.

She repositioned her arms so the overly obvious points of her ni**les were concealed from prying eyes. Even her br**sts felt heavy, awkward. Why was he still licking his damn hand?

“You’re staring,” he mumbled.

“I think you missed a spot.”

“I like sweet things.” He winked.

“Ooh, good one.”

He tipped his chin at her and the hand still sitting against her neck. “Why are you covering it up? I’m the only one here and I know all about it.”

Jerk. Though he did have a point. Just the same, Roslyn rather pointedly scratched the side of her neck with her middle finger.

“Nice.” He blew her a kiss over the top of his pikelet.

She crossed her arms over her chest, still aware of her boobs screaming look at me!, and sank down in the chair. Maybe the neck of her sweater would do some damage control, bite-wise. It looked like a Rottweiler had been at her. Nice red teeth marks imprinted in her neck, with a bruise blossoming beneath.

“I know about your perky ni**les too,” he said, smiling lecherously. “I thought we could read some more of your diary later.”

Not likely. “Where is it?”

“Somewhere safe. I noticed you didn’t write as much after the plague hit.”

Gently, she massaged the tender spot on her neck, wishing she could erase it. It and him. “There wasn’t much to say. Life sucked.”

“There was a bit about that wanker bothering you.”

She studied the view, quietly squirming inside. “That’s none of your business. Do you have any concept of what a massive invasion of my privacy your reading my diary is?”

He puffed out his lips and blew hot air her way. “Yeah, I do. But if you were better at opening up and talking about yourself I wouldn’t have to, would I? So really, it’s all your own fault.”

How badly did she want to beat him with a stick? Instead she crossed her legs and swung her foot, making the chain jiggle and sing. Because she knew it bugged him, and scowling got old after four days. Four. Long. Days.

Shit. He really would give her wrinkles.

He flicked her ankle a brief, irritated glance, thin lips flattening. “Communication is what relationships are built on.”

“We don’t have a relationship, Nick. We’re not friends and we’re sure as hell never going to be lovers. So I’d really appreciate it if you’d give me back my diary.”

“Lovers?” He stuffed the last of his honey pikelet into his mouth and chewed with what would have been a contemplative expression on anyone else. On him, it was more aggravating shit-stirring then anything. “I was thinking we’d be more ‘friends who f**k’. But ‘lovers’ does have a certain ring to it.”

She bit her tongue to hold back the retort that sprang to her lips. Best not to encourage him, or contradict. He might take it as a challenge.

“I thought we could talk about your daddy issues,” he announced.

God, but she hated him. “I don’t have any daddy issues.”

“Your diary says otherwise. Why don’t I grab it, so we can read over the stuff I’m talking about?”

Her stomach roiled. Two years’ worth of her most personal thoughts and feelings laid bare. All her hopes and dreams, along with the occasional rant. Well, maybe more than the occasional rant. Secret things she would have never said to another living soul. He would smash the sanctity of that outlet for shits and giggles. Every tendon in her body tightened, fingers clenching closed. “Nick, please. Don’t.”

“Hmm?” He busily licked his fingers clean.

“Please. Don’t read my diary. Find some other way to mess with me. I can’t …”

The man sat forward in his seat, his sudden focus on her unnerving. “You can’t what?”

How to say it? She felt drained. He wouldn’t give her diary back. For all his little niceties, he wanted to f**k with her head as a way to get at her body. That much was obvious.

Nick stood and moved over to her side, sat down. “Talk to me.”

She opened her mouth but for once the words deserted her. Her shoulders slumped dejectedly.

“Ros?” He waited, hovering.

“Nothing.”