There was an edge to his voice—something that warned her they were about to head into a place she wasn’t going to like. She couldn’t explain the feeling except that when they’d been dating, she’d known Toby as well as she’d known her own family members. She’d been able to read his mood even before he could articulate it himself, and right now, he was going to say something that would make her uncomfortable.

She pointed to the sofa. “Want to take a seat?”

“I’ll stand.” He looked at her. “I’m not getting married.”

What?

“What?”

Not getting married. That was certainly an unexpected statement that made no sense. She wanted to respond with something equally weird like There are fish in the cracker box, only she didn’t think this was the time for humor, and—

The reason behind his statement clicked into place. Annoyance and some embarrassment settled in the center of her chest.

“And you obviously feel it’s necessary to specifically warn me that you and I aren’t getting married.”

His gaze met hers, but he didn’t speak.

The arrogance of the man, she thought, irritation growing. It had been a couple of hours at the movies, followed by dinner. Nothing had happened. The fact that she’d wanted him to kiss her wasn’t the point. She’d never hinted at it, so he didn’t know what she’d been thinking. Lucky for him, the whole kissing thing was a lot less appealing now than it had been.

“As I don’t recall proposing,” she told him, “I can only assume that you have such a high opinion of yourself that you believe a single evening in your presence is so overwhelming that women automatically want to marry you. That has to be tough to deal with. Fortunately, I seem to be immune.”

“Reggie, I can’t go there. Not while Harrison is young. I can’t risk it.”

“Fine. It’s all clear now. I hate to have to return the ring. Oh, wait. We’re not engaged.” She slapped her hand against her forehead. “Silly me.”

“Be serious.”

“Why? This is a ridiculous topic. You’re not getting married? Who says that? Who thinks it? Do you honestly believe I spend my life thinking about you? I don’t. I haven’t thought of you in years.”

He watched her. “Last night was different.”

“We went to the movies. Big whoop.”

“It was more than that.”

Was it? He’d felt it, too? Only she couldn’t say that because he was currently being a butthead, or slipping into madness.

“We have chemistry,” he continued. “That hasn’t gone away. But you’re not the casual sex type, and I don’t do anything else.”

She took a second to digest all of that. Yup, a butthead.