“You’re impossible,” she snaps.

I lean back against the table like I’ve got all the time in the world, arms crossed, watching the fire in her eyes. God, she’s furious. And somehow that only makes it worse—because she’s also beautiful when she’s like this.

“Am I?” I say lightly. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing about you.”

Her glare sharpens. If looks could kill, I’d be dead three times over.

“You think this is funny?”

A smile pulls at the corner of my mouth. I probably shouldn’t smile. Definitely shouldn’t.

But I do anyway.

“Oh, I think you are funny,” I say. “Storming in here like you’re about to start a war.”

“I am starting a war.”

“Over what? Because I disagreed with you?”

“Because you’re arrogant,” she shoots back. “You act like you know everything.”

I push off the table and take a step closer. She doesn’t move. Of course she doesn’t. Stubborn.

“Careful,” I murmur. “You’re getting dramatic.”

Her jaw tightens. “Don’t patronize me.”

“Then stop saying things that invite it.”

For a second the room goes quiet. The tension between us crackles like lightning before a storm.

She lifts her chin, defiant. “You’re unbelievable.”

I lean down just a little, close enough to see the exact shade of her eyes.

“And yet,” I say softly, voice edged with teasing heat, “you’re still here arguing with me.”

Her breath catches—just barely—but I notice.

Of course I do.

“And you,” she says, recovering quickly, “are still insufferable.”

I grin.

“Yeah,” I admit. “But you like the fight.”