He knew she would never believe him. She had this almost insulting perspective of him. He could see it in her eyes, the way she dismissed him because of her own insecurities. He knew that she couldn’t imagine him seeing her the way he saw her.

“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” She asked, frowning in annoyance.

“Like what?” He wanted to know.

She concentrated. “Like you’ve got a secret but you’re going to be an ass and not tell me.”

Normally he would laugh it off, but he wasn’t really in the mood. He frowned back at her.

“I am not an ass,” he retorted.

“I didn’t say you’re an ass. I said you were going to be an ass.”

“Stop saying ass,” he groused. “It’s not ladylike.”

“As you wish, Miss Manners,” she shot back.

“You drive me crazy,” he muttered under his breath.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“But you said something. I heard you.”

“You never hear me. If you did, you would be nicer.”

“I am nice.”

She was nice, he realized. Maybe if he opened up, she might actually think past her perceptions of him.