The World According to Ali

An Excerpt From: THE WORLD ACCORDING TO ALI

Copyright © T.L. GRAY, 2005.

All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.

She took refuge in the kitchen, found it empty, and sighed gratefully. Setting her beer down, she flipped the paper towels hanging from the under-the-counter dispenser for no other reason than it was a peeve of hers to have to reach beneath the roll.

"Thank God," a throaty male voice said from behind her. "Someone else who realizes the importance of tearing off a paper towel from the front."

Ali turned, leaning a hip into the counter. The intruder was a good six feet tall, with tawny, gold hair and intellectual features. Hazel eyes regarded her from behind round, gold-rimmed glasses. A straight, aristocratic nose, strong, square jaw, and a killer mouth gave way to perfectly straight, white teeth. Broad shoulders, encased in a polo knit, tapered to a firm, trim waist. Pleated trousers and leather loafers completed the picture of casual wealth.

When he tipped his imported beer up and took a swallow, Ali couldn´t help but notice his hands. Long fingers tipped with blunt nails. Clean nails. His grip was warm and firm as she took the hand he extended in introduction. "I don´t believe we´ve met. Jordan Finch."

"Ali MacPherson."

"You´re hiding out, right?" He chose the counter opposite her, lined with louvered doors, to lean against.

"And you just came in here to see if the paper towels were hanging correctly."

"Okay, we´re hiding out," he corrected with a smile. "What now?"

She scooped up her own beer, and took a swig. "I have to tell you up front, I don´t go in much for charming, good-looking men."

"You and every other woman under the age of thirty," he grunted. "Nowadays, if you don´t have stringy hair, pierced eyebrows, and tongue studs that clack against your teeth, you can forget dating."

Stuffed shirt, she decided. Professionally and socially uptight. Stuffed, she could handle, possibly. Uptight-no way. But neither was she a fan of tongue studs and ringed eyebrows. "What do you say we get the painful part over with right off the bat?"

"As in?"

"As in we hide out in here and tell each other our bad habits so we won´t be tempted to date, only to be disappointed later when those wretched little details unveil themselves. Or we could go back out there and mingle."

He considered the alternative. "You don´t give a guy much choice, do you?"

"Your call." She crossed her arms, waiting. He´d bail. She was almost sure of it. "Look at it this way. We can date right here in the kitchen, forget the pretense, and walk away winners without the battle scars."

"I´ll stay. But you go first."

"How gentlemanly of you. I smoke."

"Nasty habit, but not one I couldn´t make myself get around," he countered. "There are worse things."

"Yes, but sometimes I flick my ashes into my plate instead of the ashtray."

"Now that´s disgusting," he agreed.

"Okay, your turn."

He thought for a moment in silence, then said, "Every once in a while, when I´m at a stop light, I get the urge to hawk and spit out the window."

Ali waved away the thought. "That´s not necessarily a bad habit. More of a guy thing."

"Not with my family. There´s no hawking, spitting, or discussion of bodily functions allowed at the dinner table."

She grinned over that. "What more could a girl ask for?"

"Moving on. What other nasty habits do you have, Ali MacPherson?"

"I´m fidgety. I jiggle my foot a lot."

"I´d never have guessed." His gaze dropped to her feet, admiring the sling-backed heels, then the legs attached to them, right up to the hem of her short cocktail dress. "You look normal."

"Ah, but you see, that´s the catch. I look normal, but underneath I´m not what I seem."

He raised a tawny eyebrow. "How far underneath?"

She hesitated for a moment, deciding she wasn´t quite ready to shock him into running for his life. "We´ll cover body parts later. Right now let´s stick with habits."

"Okay." He crossed one loafer-clad foot over the other. "I squeeze the toothpaste tube from the middle."

"Naturally."

"Come on, admit it." A twinkle lit up those hazel eyes behind his glasses. "You´ve squeezed from the middle, you just don´t tell anybody."

She tossed her head in denial. "Never."

His gaze roamed over her figure again, more heated than before. "Quick, tell me something really disgusting. I´m beginning to get hot under the collar."

"I love to say outrageous things at the wrong moment, just to shock people."

"Like what?"

"Like the time I looked up to find my date carefully trying to conceal the fact he was picking his nose at the dinner table. I asked him if he´d like to use my fork."

He put a hand to his stomach, wincing. "Sounds like a real winner. But I can top that. My last date flossed at the table and flicked goop from between her teeth on my face. I´m thinking of going celibate."

"Ah, sex. Now, there´s where you really get into trouble. Swapping spit, bad breath, clammy hands."

"My hands are never clammy," he informed her. "And we´ve already established I don´t make spit."

"Bad breath, then."

He lifted his bottle of imported beer, shifting to the other foot. "It would only take a moment to find out if my mouthwash really does all the things it claims on the label."

"No can do. I might enjoy kissing you only to find out later that you´re secretly married."

"Divorced," he said in a clipped tone.

"Oooh, that´s a sore spot, huh?" she noted wryly. "Okay, give it up. What´d you do, step out on her?"

He stiffened. "Maybe it wasn´t my fault."

"Then why are you getting so defensive?"

"Because I don´t consider professional commitment a flaw. It helped pay for the house she´s currently residing in."

"Depends how you look at it. Were you living in the house with her, or just breezing in and out the door between meetings?"

A faint scowl marred his forehead. "When someone pays a quarter of a million dollars for a prime piece of property, he doesn´t like to wait until it´s convenient for me to develop it."

"You miss out on the fun in life when you stick your nose in blueprints every waking hour. But that´s another good reason for us not to consider dating. You´re a workaholic, obviously."

"And you pay the bills how?" He quirked a brow at her.

"I own a fashion boutique, put in my share of sixteen hour days, but always, always, make time for a night out with friends. Think you might look at me when I´m talking to you, or would you rather I stripped naked so you can see the tattoo on my ass."

He colored profusely, ripping his gaze from her legs to concentrate on finishing off his beer.

"Can´t say I didn´t warn you," she reminded him sweetly.

"Yeah. You did." He twisted at the waist to discard the bottle on the counter behind him.

"Cheer up, Finch. Now you can go home grateful you didn´t make the mistake of asking out a loose broad like me."