by Roni Loren
Her belly dipped, and she tried to ignore the shimmer of awareness that went through her at the way he was looking at her, like he was seeing right through her unaffected facade and reading her thoughts. “How do you figure?”
“You were passionate about saving that dog tonight, and you have stacks of books by your couch, which I’m guessing are about topics you’re into. And when you first tasted Dev’s food tonight, you got this look on your face like it’d taken you to another place. Not everyone savors food like that. Believe me,” he said softly. “That’s like chef crack. It makes us want to feed you all the things.”
She’d just taken another bite of the chicken, and she became hyperaware of the way he was watching her lick the remnants of sauce off her lips. All the things. What would he feed her? Would he taste as spicy as the chicken? She forced the bite down. “Eating for a hobby would be dangerous.”
“Also”—he gave her a serious look—“you wear blue lace underwear, which I’m thinking isn’t worn by passionless women. I mean, if they were green or that weird nylon material, then all hope would’ve been lost. But blue. Blue is the color of the sky and the ocean. It means hidden depths and endless possibilities.”
“We were supposed to forget you saw that.”
He lifted his palms. “We’re talking about hypothetical blue underwear, of course.”
She arched a brow. “You normally talk to strangers about their hypothetical underwear?”
“Don’t you?” His smile was playful. “You can learn a lot about a person that way.”
“Oh really? What do yours say about you?” The question was out before she could stop herself.
“Hmm.” He peeked down and apparently reached for the waistband of his jeans to check. “That I’m irresponsible because I forgot to do laundry again and had to go without.”
Her gaze automatically slid down, even though his lower half was beneath the counter, and she quickly jerked her attention back up, but not before she felt her face heat. “And the TMI is complete.”
He laughed. “Fine. Enough about underwear. All I’m saying is that there are sparks already. You just have to try new things and figure out what’s going to set you on fire.”
She rubbed her lips together, her skin too hot. He wasn’t talking about the two of them, but her mind kept wanting to go there. Trying things with him and seeing what set her on fire. She pushed the thought away, shoving it into an increasingly stuffed mental closet labeled Shit You Should Never Think About. “And cooking lights that fire for you?”
He rested on his forearms, bringing him closer, his gaze intent, honest. “It does. Among other things.”
If she closed the space, leaned in, she could kiss him. Some reckless part of her wanted to, wanted to pretend that he wasn’t a guy who’d cheated on his wife and that she was a woman who could hook up with a hot stranger without a care. She could already see the scene playing out in her head. Wes’s lips on hers, the spicy taste of the food and wine lingering between them. Him stepping around the island and pushing her up against a wall, making her forget the horrible night. His mouth moving down her neck, her fingers in his hair, his hands sliding beneath her shirt. He wouldn’t be shy or halting. He’d take over. She could almost feel the heat of him against her, his palms sliding along her bare skin.
“Rebecca…”
Her pulse quickened at the rough sound of his voice, and she swallowed past the dryness in her throat. “Huh?”
“I think the locksmith called out for you.”
“Oh, right.” She quickly shoved her chair back with a loud scraping sound, breaking the strange, quiet spell between them. “Sorry. Excuse me a second.”
Wes leaned back and nodded. “Sure.”
Rebecca hurried to the front of the house, sweat gathering between her breasts and her body too hot in the best places. What the hell was wrong with her? She was not allowed to fantasize about Wesley Garrett. She was not that stupid.
Trauma. People reacted to it in all kinds of weird ways. This had to be some strange response to what she’d been through tonight.
Her brain was seeking a distraction. A super hot, tattooed, hazel-eyed distraction. Something all consuming that would shut down the scary thoughts and let her get swallowed up by pure physical sensation. Sensation she had no doubt someone like Wes could dish out banquet style.
Great. She was now making chef metaphors about sex. She needed to get Wes out of her house, pronto.
When she walked into the living room, the locksmith was packing up his gear. He gave her a brief humorless smile and handed her keys. “Ms. Lindt, I’ve got both the front and back door done. Top-quality dead bolts. You should be good to go. Do you want to pay now or have us bill you?”
She frowned. “Go ahead and bill me. My purse was stolen, so I have to get new credit cards and I don’t have any cash on me.”
“No problem, and I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thanks.”
He tipped his ball cap at her and grabbed his gear. “Call us if you have any trouble with anything.”
She walked him out and then shut the door behind him. She tested the keys and locked the door, anything to delay going back into the kitchen. But eventually, she had to face Wes.
When she walked in, he was cleaning up the remnants of their dinner, bicep flexing as he wiped down the counter. “All is well?”
She cleared her dry throat and nodded, resenting the fact that the man even looked hot cleaning. “Seems to be.”
“That’s good.” He set down the rag and tossed the takeout boxes in the trash. “Do you want any more wine?”
She lifted her palm. “Nope. Please cut me off.”
Because I’m this close to doing something stupid.
“Do you have a mason jar?”
“Um, probably. Why?”
“Best way to keep the wine fresh. Recorking it is a waste. But if you put it in an airtight mason jar in the fridge, you can get a few more days out of it.”
She smirked and went to a cabinet to get an empty jar. “Helpful tips from Chef Wes?”
“I don’t like to waste things, especially good wine.”
“You didn’t drink any of yours.”
Something tightened in his expression, but it was gone as fast as it was there. “It’s late, and I’m driving. Don’t want to fall asleep on the way home.”
She handed him the jar, his fingers brushing hers, and she quickly stepped back. “Thanks again for everything tonight.”
He smiled as he poured the wine into the jar. “No problem. I’m glad I could help, and though I hate the reason why we ended up here, I enjoyed the company.”
“Me too,” she said, the honesty falling out of her before she could think better of it.
He screwed the lid tight and tucked the wine into the fridge. When he turned back around, he stepped a little closer. Still a friendly distance, but she felt the shift in his demeanor. “And I know you nixed the cooking lessons, but if you like to try new foods, I could show you around the rest of the park sometime. Give you a tour of all the best stuff. I know Dev has more things you should taste.”
The offer took the air out of her for a moment. “You’re asking me out?”
He blinked at her blurted question and then gave her a chagrined smile as he tucked his hands in his back pockets. “No, of course not. Because that would be a completely dick move after the night you had.”
She blinked, still trying to process everything.
“But I like talking to you,” he went on. “So maybe we can call it a request for tonight not to be the last time I ever talk to you. How about that?”
“A request for further conversation.”
He nodded resolutely, eyes sparkling with humor. “Yes. Totally. Should I send a formal invitation through your secretary? Because that sounds pretty official.”
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She shook her head, unable to fight a smile. Why did this guy have to be so damn charming? The insane part of her wanted to say yes. But charm was probably what had gotten him in trouble in his marriage. He could talk his way into any woman’s bed.
Ugh.
She’d finally met a guy who made her laugh and got her thinking dirty thoughts, and he was a cheater and a former adversary who would eventually figure out who she was. Once he knew her last name, it’d probably all click into place. Disaster was imminent, which meant there was only one logical answer. And she was a logical person. She met his eyes. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
His smile sagged. “Have further conversation?”
“Right. Sorry. It’s just, I’m always busy and you’re…not my type.” She winced inwardly at the choice of words.
His wince wasn’t so inward. “Ouch. Not even the type for further conversation. Okay, fair enough.”
“It’s not… I mean, you’re…” Beautiful. Ridiculously charming. Freaking dangerous.
He lifted his hands in surrender. “No need to explain. Seriously. I asked. You said no. We’re cool. But I’m going to head out and let you get to bed. Do you have a house phone if you need anything tonight?”
She shifted on her feet. “Yeah, I’m covered.”
“All right. Well…take care.”
In that moment, she saw snapshots from the night. Of a man fearlessly running toward her to help and cradling a hurt dog on the way to the vet and blanketing her body in her bathroom to protect her. Of making her laugh when she felt like she was going to lose it.
On impulse, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him for a quick hug. He may be a jerk in other parts of his life, but tonight he’d been anything but to her. She wanted him to know that what he had done meant something to her. “Thanks again for everything. It was way above and beyond the call of duty.”
He stiffened in surprise, but then he wrapped his arms around her, his warmth and scent surrounding her. “You’re welcome. Glad I could help.”
She held on for longer than was appropriate, the comfort of his embrace like a cozy blanket after the hellish night. But when she finally relented and eased back, Wes didn’t release her fully, his big palm staying pressed to her back. Her hands remained on his waist.
He stared down at her, his gaze searching like she’d confused him, and she had no idea what kind of look she was giving him back.
Then, she felt herself lifting up on her toes, and before her brain caught up, she cupped his stubbled jaw and pressed her lips against his. He made a choked noise, but he didn’t back away. Instead, his fingers curled into the back of her shirt, the grip tight, like he was afraid she’d bolt.
Her logical self was screaming in her ears. What the hell are you doing? Abort! Abort! But she couldn’t stop a horse that was already out of the gate. His lips softened against hers, and he kissed her back gently, an exploration. He tasted of spicy food and maleness and every delicious fantasy she had conjured. The basic, needy parts of her revved with anticipation, readying for more. Maybe she could have this. Just for a minute.
But as her muscles went soft and pliant and his tongue grazed hers, logical thought shoved its way to the front of the line, demanding to be heard. Cheater. Cheater. Cheater.
Shit. She dropped her hands from his face and leapt back, her heart beating too hard and her body feverish.
Wes blinked down at her, desire clearing and confusion replacing it. “I, uh… What was that?”
She winced and wanted to fold in on herself. “Um, a thank-you and goodbye?”
He ran a hand through his hair like he was a little scattered himself. “Goodbye? That…felt like the opposite of a goodbye, Rebecca. That felt like a whole lot of hello.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I don’t know what that was.” She crossed her arms and shifted on her feet. “I may be a little drunk.”
Such. A. Lie. Tipsy, maybe. Drunk, not so much.
He let out a breath and nodded. “Drunk. Okay, well, that is definitely my cue to leave.”
He stepped forward, and her heart nearly came to a stop in her chest. He was going to kiss her again. But Wes’s hand came up to cup the back of her skull, and he kissed the top of her head instead. “Get some rest and have a nice life, Rebecca. Hope you find something that sets you on fire.”
He stepped back and she deflated, a pang of embarrassment heating her face. Good Lord, what was wrong with her? She was acting like a hard-up fool with a man she definitely didn’t need to get involved with.
She gave him a tight smile. “Thanks. Sorry for the…weirdness. Hope you figure out the food-truck thing.”
“Right. Weirdness.” A rueful expression passed over his face, and then he turned and headed out without looking back.
She stared at the place he’d vacated for a long moment, his presence still lingering like a quiet mist. Her shoulders sagged, and she trudged to the back door to lock the new lock. She tapped her head against the doorjamb a few times.
Well, she’d wanted him to leave. She’d accomplished that with epic awkwardness. No more worrying about getting wrapped up in something or someone she shouldn’t.
She leaned against the door and pressed her fingers to her tingling lips, a hard kick of longing going through her.
Longing? No. Wesley Garrett was not someone to long for. Not only did he have a checkered history, but if he’d known who she was, he never would’ve requested more conversation or…kissed her back.
This was for the best. Obviously.
So why did she suddenly feel like she’d lost something?
chapter
SEVEN
Rebecca slid into the booth in the bustling Broken Yolk restaurant, earning the surprised gazes of her three friends. “Sorry I’m late. It’s been a morning. And I couldn’t call because I had to get a new phone. Long story.”
Kincaid shifted over along the bench seat to make room, her blond ponytail swinging. “Rebecca Lindt is fifteen minutes late for Bitching Brunch. I was starting to worry the apocalypse was nigh.” She flagged the waiter down. “Sugar, can you get my friend a mimosa? I’m guessing she needs one. Or two.”
The young guy smiled a smile that Kincaid seemed to inspire in every male with her Southern belle accent and long-lashed beauty-queen looks. “Right away, ma’am.”
“Thanks,” Rebecca said, tucking her purse between her and Kincaid and sending a smile to her other two friends, Liv and Taryn, who were sitting on the other side. “I may need three. And lots of pancakes.”
And these women. Which was a new concept for Rebecca. Up until a few months ago, she’d lost touch with these three ladies, former classmates from Long Acre High. Rebecca had thought moving on from the tragedy in high school meant leaving everything and everyone having to do with it behind, but when they’d all come back together for a documentary about the school shooting, they’d reconnected.
Based on what they were in high school, they would’ve been an unlikely crew. Olivia the artsy, goth Latina who was too cool to care what anyone thought. Kincaid, the dance team captain who was on top of the popularity food chain. Taryn, the quiet but dedicated student and athlete. And then Rebecca, obsessed with grades and student government and anything that earned her a gold star and made her look good to her dad and colleges.
They hadn’t been friends until after the shooting, when they’d ended up together in a support group, and then they’d lost touch for over a decade. But now Rebecca realized how much she needed these women and was thankful to have them back in her life. Women who knew her before. Women who understood exactly how hard it was to move on when something that traumatic defined your past. Now, even though they were all busy with their own careers, they’d made a promise to get together regularly and to be there for each other. The Bitching Brunch was one version of that.
Liv, whose
black hair was pulled into a messy bun atop her head, glanced at the bandages on Rebecca’s arms and frowned. “Whoa. What happened, Bec?”
It was on the tip of Rebecca’s tongue to say she’d fallen and leave it at that. After years of saying she was all right after the shooting, putting on a brave face and pretending she wasn’t a complete disaster inside, she had a tendency to default to that response. Move along. Nothing to see here. But she took a breath and dragged the automatic response back. She didn’t have to fake it with her friends. “I was mugged Friday night on the way home from work. I got knocked down onto the pavement.”
Taryn’s brown eyes went wide behind her plastic pink-rimmed glasses. “Oh my God, girl. Are you okay?”
Liv and Kincaid had matching expressions of horror on their faces.
“I’m all right,” Rebecca said tiredly. “It could’ve been a lot worse. They got away with my purse and phone. But they…had a gun.”
Her voice caught on the last part, and Kincaid pressed her hand to her chest, her bangle bracelets jangling. “Oh, honey.”
“Jesus,” Liv said, reaching across the table and giving Rebecca’s hand a squeeze. “I would’ve freaking lost it.”
She and Liv shared that phobia. Liv hadn’t been shot on prom night like Rebecca had, but she’d had a gun pointed at her face. She’d had that moment where she knew she would die. That imprinted on a psyche. Rebecca would know.
She squeezed Liv’s hand back and sighed. “It all sucked, but I’m okay beyond a few scrapes. This big dog came to my rescue and went after the one who had the gun. But the guy shot the dog in the leg.”
“They shot the dog?” Taryn asked, horrified.
“There’s a special place in hell for people like that,” Kincaid said before taking a long sip of her mimosa, her eyes full of concern.
The waiter brought Rebecca two drinks, and she quickly ordered a plate of banana pancakes.
“So is the dog okay?” Liv asked, sitting back in the booth and sweeping her bangs away from her eyes. “Did the guys get caught?”
