“You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were conceited. Who is everyone?” He traced the shape of her jaw, trailing his fingertip down her throat.

“I’m not conceited. Maybe I do sound it…to someone…like you…” she hesitated. “I just mean, you know, someone who feels like he wants to hide under a table…”

“Who is everyone?” he asked again.

“Oh, everyone.” She sighed. “You name it-my parents, my sisters, teachers, friends, family. The thing people say most often about me is: ‘Annie is the pretty one.’ It’s always followed by that silent assumption that I’m an idiot.”

“Hence the degree in psychology,” he mused. “Let me guess, you’ve got a doctorate.”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Law of compensation.”

“Very funny. So, do you have a degree in matchmaking, then?” Annie rested her hand on his thigh and snuggled up a little closer. The tile was getting cold under her hip and his warmth was comforting.

“They didn’t offer it where I went.”

“And where is that?”

“Olympia.”

Annie snorted, letting her Ivy League pretension show. “Are you kidding?

Did you really go to Olympia? Which degree, medical transcription or vet tech?”

“Massage therapist.”

“Oh…” Annie tried to cover yet another unintentional, but clear, insult.

“Well, that explains why my head feels so much better.”

“Does it? Would you like me to do your shoulders? You’re pretty tight.”

“Eric, that’s gotta be the oldest line in the book for you massage therapists.” She laughed. Looking up at him, she could see the outline of his face-and yes, there were glasses-but she still couldn’t really make out his features.

“Perhaps.” This time she saw the flash of his teeth.

She smiled back. “Well, it’s working.”

“Then come here and sit between my legs.” His voice was warm and inviting and she flushed like a school girl as she delicately felt her way over his thigh, sensing him adjust to her shape as she settled herself.