A Matter of Trust

by Lorhainne Eckhart

  The way he was watching her, she worried. Was he trying to find a way to let her down easy? After all, she hadn’t made things easy for him here in Kit Cove. She was still embarrassed over her juvenile behavior, and she wished she could take back spitting on him that first night, go back and be responsible and think things through before she acted. She could beg his forgiveness, but she was too embarrassed to ever bring it up again. She prayed he’d forget it had ever happened.

  When he stepped toward her, closing the distance between them with a confidence she would have killed for, her heart did a backflip, and she had to swallow again. He slid his hand under her chin and lifted it so that she was forced to look into those eyes, which were searching her out. They were so mysterious and deep, and she wanted to get to know him so much better.

  He leaned in and pressed his lips to hers in a light, tender kiss that jolted through her right to her toes and shocked the hell out of her. When he pulled away, his hands were still on her, and he said, “Yes.”

  ***

  If there was one thing Carrie knew how to do well, it was cook. After all, she’d had the best teacher, Alice. She’d cooked beside her for years, the only times that brought any solace between the two of them. She didn’t know why, but there was something comforting about sharing a kitchen with Alice, who could cook anything and create the most mouthwatering, delicious dishes. The only problem was that Carrie had never cooked for a man before—well, at least not someone like Ben, who she was pretty sure had dined at some of the finest restaurants in the world. Would he expect something amazing and flavorful and creative?

  A high-pitched beep from the smoke detector had her shrieking as she realized that smoke was coming from the oven. She raced into the kitchen. “Oh no!” she shrieked as she pulled the oven open, smoke billowing out as she lifted out the butter chicken lasagna that was now black on top. She dumped the pan on the stovetop. There were flickers of fire on the bottom of the oven, and she blew on it in a panic before reaching for baking soda to sprinkle on the flames. This was horrible—the worst disaster! She coughed and waved her hand in front of herself as she raced to the windows, opening them to clear the smoke that filled the room.

  “Shit! Shit, Carrie, what the hell?” She grabbed a chair and had just set it under the shrieking smoke detector, which was beeping like crazy, when someone started pounding on the door.

  “Carrie, you all right in there?”

  It was Ben, of course. She heard the door open.

  Why did he have to be so punctual? She reached for the top of the smoke detector to twist it off, and she didn’t have to look to see that he was coming her way. She could hear him and feel his heat. She pulled the top of the smoke detector down and ripped the battery out, and there was silence just as Ben appeared beside her. When she went to turn around, the chair tipped, and she lost her balance. She didn’t have time to panic or scream, because Ben had her in his arms, holding her close to him, as if she weighed nothing. She couldn’t remember ever being so nervous or embarrassed in her life, and instead of sucking it up like a big girl and making the best of one of her most embarrassing moments, she groaned and leaned her face against his chest.

  “I’m sorry I burned dinner!” she cried out, wanting to kick herself for turning this night into a disaster.

  And what did he do? He started laughing. She could feel his chest shaking as he held her against him, his arm under her knees against her bare legs, as her dress had ridden up. She didn’t know what to do as she pulled away, her arm still comfortably wrapped around his neck. He put her down in a room that was still filled with smoke, though it was clearing quickly through the open window.

  “Well, I could take you out again,” Ben said, but the thought of going out and not having him alone here saddened her. It was then that she noticed a bottle of wine sitting on the table. He must have done that before she'd landed in his arms.

  “Oh, you brought wine!”

  He was now in the kitchen, looking at her burned black creation. “What was it?” he asked, and she wondered for a minute whether he was going to make fun of her.

  She couldn’t help feeling like a failure. She had searched the internet for hours, trying to find something different and creative, something that would impress him. “Butter chicken lasagna,” she muttered. It was a difficult dish, a cross between Indian and Italian cuisine, with so many steps and ingredients that she’d spent hours cutting, stirring, and arranging. What had she been thinking? She wanted to cry. Maybe all of the nerves she’d bottled up from being around Ben were finally breaking free. “I’m sorry. I was trying to impress you with something fancier than plain old meatloaf.”

  “But I love meatloaf,” he said. She could see him taking in her tiny and very plain kitchen. It was a small apartment, a walk-through with no dishwasher and a small four-burner stove. The cupboards were chipped pressboard with what appeared to be cheap, white paint slapped on.

  “You’re kidding, right?” she said. “You’d choose meatloaf over something fancy?”

  He shrugged and gave her his dashing smile. “What can I say? I’m a homegrown boy. Besides, I’ve eaten in some pretty nice places and tasted some of the best food in the world, but there’s nothing like a good meatloaf if you know how to do it right.”

  She tried to figure out whether he was making fun of her or trying to make her feel better, at the same time trying to understand how meatloaf could possibly top his list of favorite foods. “There aren’t many things I’m great at, but, I swear to you, I make the best meatloaf,” she said, holding up the flat of her hand. Her confidence was returning as she thought of the pound of hamburger in the fridge, to which she had originally turned up her nose, thinking meatloaf was beneath him. She tapped the counter with her fingers, taking in his expression, which seemed to say, Okay, prove it to me. She yanked open the fridge and pulled out the ground beef, setting it on the counter.

  “You had hamburger in the fridge all along?” he said, shaking his head, the teasing smile still there. “I take it that’s a no, you don’t want to go out for dinner.” He was so close to her that she could have leaned into him.

  “Well, there’s only one restaurant in town, and although Hank’s meatloaf is good, mine is better. And besides”—she gestured nervously to the table—“I’d kind of like a glass of wine.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ben put the smoke detector back together, taking a closer look at how dated everything was. The windows slid open but didn’t appear to have any locks, and he found himself taking in a lot of the red flags that came with older units like this. Maybe he’d have a word with Jack, see if he knew what sort of place his daughter lived in. Kit Cove wasn’t a booming community, though, and newer buildings didn’t seem to exist here.

  He made his way back into the kitchen, and he thought he heard Carrie humming softly under her breath. As he leaned against the counter, he took in Carrie and her transformation from blue jeans to a simple sheath dress. It was unsettling. She had a slim figure and a great ass that made up for her lack of breasts. He should have been okay standing next to her in this cramped kitchen, watching her knead ground beef after she'd added all kinds of ingredients—onions, garlic, bread crumbs, and red sauce from a jar, which she said was a homemade barbecue marinade—but he felt strange. Maybe it was because she was standing barefoot, and she had these amazing feet that he longed to get his hands on. It was so domestic, too, in an odd, barefoot-and-pregnant sort of way. He had to clear his throat. He couldn’t believe his thoughts had gone there! Carrie didn’t seem to have a clue, as she looked up and smiled.

  He took another swallow of wine, realizing this was another first, standing in a kitchen while a woman made him dinner. The only women who had ever cooked for him were his mother and his two brothers’ wives, and that had been a different experience altogether. No, he had never allowed any woman that he’d dated, bedded, and flirted with to cook for him. He wined and dined them at some of the best restaurants aro
und before taking them home to their place so he could leave after the fun was done. He found this situation unsettling.

  He was seeing a different Carrie, together and confident. The way she mixed the raw meat and ingredients with her small hands was nurturing, and it made him want her hands on him. He wanted those tiny, delicate fingers touching him where he hadn’t been touched in a while. The fact was that Ben had a healthy sex life, but it lacked intimacy. He didn’t date exclusively, and he liked variety, telling himself it was to keep things fresh. In truth, closeness terrified Ben. He’d never experienced that feeling of not being able to wait to be with someone, to hear their voice, to see them smile, to just touch them. Carrie was such a pain in the ass, but he hadn’t been able to wait to be around her again. There had to be something wrong with him.

  Ben took a swallow of the Malbec he’d picked up from the liquor store just outside of town. He hadn’t had much of a choice, as their selection had leaned toward the boxed variety, but he considered the Malbec a score, as he knew this brand of Argentinean wine. Carrie’s eyes widened when he held up the small wineglass and put it to her lips so she could take a sip while her hands were buried in the raw meat.

  “So where did you learn to cook?” he asked. He wondered what her response would be, remembering all too well Alice’s shared confidence from earlier that morning.

  Carrie reached for a glass casserole dish and dumped the meat in, patting it down until it was flat and touching all the edges. “Alice taught me,” she said. When she looked up at him, there was something in her expression that gave away her softness and care toward Alice.

  He wondered whether Carrie really understood her feelings about the situation. Would she ever get past this misguided sense of betrayal? “Alice is a very good cook,” Ben said, wondering how she’d react. She could be so hot and cold about Alice and Jack.

  Carrie washed her hands under the tap and then dried them before putting the meatloaf in the tiny oven. “She’s very good in the kitchen. My fondest memories of Alice are being there with her. We didn’t talk—we were just together, cooking, baking.” She smiled wistfully and then leaned over the stove, turning the faded dial, which bore black marks in place of numbers for the temperature. She seemed to know what she was doing, though, as she muttered, “Well, that should do it. Should be ready in about forty-five minutes.”

  She then peeled the potatoes and put them on to boil. With nothing in her hands, she started fidgeting with the belt on her gray sheath dress. She looked cute, slim, and she slid her fingers through her hair and brushed it back, revealing two gold hoops in her ears. Her bare feet were causing him some grief. Even though she was short, not at all the tall, leggy kind of woman he always went for, she had the most amazing, shapely legs. Considering her dress stopped a few inches above her knees, he was getting quite an eyeful.

  “So should I give you the tour?” she said nervously before reaching for her wine and leading him from the kitchen. She gestured to a short hall with two doors. “Bathroom and my bedroom, and this is the living room and dining room. You saw the kitchen.”

  The entire apartment couldn’t have been more than five hundred square feet. Her living room held a light brown cloth loveseat, a small flat-screen TV, a plant in the corner, and a coffee table he could have sworn was similar to what his family had had while he was growing up. Her kitchen table was a small pine with two chairs. It was kind of homey, but there were no pictures on the plain, white walls, and boxes were still stacked three high in the corner.

  She took another sip of wine and blushed again. It was adorable that she couldn’t hide her feelings. He couldn’t remember when he’d last been around a woman who blushed.

  “You still have some unpacking to do?” he asked.

  Carrie glanced at the boxes before sitting on the loveseat, brushing her hair back with her hand. She patted the seat beside her, and he wondered if she had any clue what she was doing. She was small, close to him, and his legs brushed hers when he sat. She tucked her feet under her butt as if she wasn’t wearing a dress, and it rode up higher, letting him see her amazing thighs.

  “My mother’s stuff. Alice thought I might want it,” she said, staring down into her wine. She didn’t have a clue what she was doing to Ben as he leaned back, putting his hand on the back of the sofa. He was so close to Carrie that they were almost touching, and he couldn’t take his eyes from her creamy, silky skin. He wondered what she’d do if he reached down and slid his hand up, moving the material higher.

  He had to clear his throat. “So why haven’t you opened the boxes?” he asked. A stillness came over her, along with a sadness he had seen once before.

  “I don’t know. I just couldn’t bring myself to. All those memories of Mom…” She shrugged her shoulders and ran her finger around the rim of the wine glass. “Maybe it’s time, though.” She took another sip of wine, glancing up at him shyly.

  God help him, when she ran the tip of her tongue over her lower lip, he wanted to lean in and taste her. Her lips were not too plump, just enough there that they were made to kiss—and kiss well. By the way she was holding her wine glass in front of her so tightly, he questioned whether she’d welcome it, though. He took in her expression, her nervous energy. She bit her lower lip again, and he couldn’t help himself. He reached for her chin, sliding his hand under and running his fingers over her silky skin. “Don’t do that,” he murmured.

  Her eyes seemed to widen a bit. For a minute, as he watched the blush deepening on her face, he wondered whether she was scared.

  “Do what?” Her voice squeaked, but he knew she understood what he was talking about.

  “Bite your lip.”

  Her eyes widened, and a soft gasp escaped her as he kept his hand where it was on her jaw. “Why?”

  As he leaned closer, taking in the very faint freckles that dotted her nose, she was absolutely lovely. Her face was free of heavy makeup, not even a hint of mascara. “Because I want to be the one to do it,” he said, and he didn’t give her a chance to say anything. He leaned in and kissed her.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Carrie thought she’d died and gone to heaven as soon as Ben touched his lips to hers. She’d never imagined a man could kiss as deeply and sensually as he did. She wanted to crawl closer to him and into that kiss, but that damn smoke detector started beeping again, startling her, and she pulled back, dumping her wine all down the front of the only nice dress she owned.

  “Ah, no!” She leaped up and raced into the kitchen. “No, not again!”

  It was the potatoes. They had boiled over, and the starch was smoking on the burner. She set her wineglass on the counter and then slid the pot off the burner just as the smoke detector stopped.

  “You all right?”

  Ben was beside her, and she couldn’t look up at him. She was reeling over the fact that she was making a fool of herself while trying to make a simple dinner. All she was doing was messing it up. And Ben, that kiss…she still felt as if she was ten feet off the ground. The man definitely had a way of scrambling her senses.

  She lifted the lid off the pot. “Guess that’s what happens when I don’t pay attention. I think they’re salvageable,” she said. She could feel him watching her. He was so close, leaning against the counter, and she wondered what he’d do if she said to hell with dinner and stepped closer to him, letting him kiss her again. She wanted him to, and she started biting her lip.

  Ben reached out and put his hand on her chin again, and she was forced to look up at him and the intensity burning in his brilliant, blue eyes, which seemed to darken just a bit. For a moment, she was terrified of what would happen between them, at the same time worried he’d step back and walk away. Her heart was thudding as he ran his thumb over her lower lip, and she stopped biting, softening her mouth, hoping he’d lean down and kiss her again. He blinked and took a breath, and she felt him pull away and drop his hand.

  It was a horrible sense of loss that she felt.

 
“Hey, if I don’t stop, we’re never going to eat,” he said.

  She was shocked, noticing the hard set of his jaw, as if he was fighting something. “Right, dinner.”

  “What can I do to help?” He actually put his hand on her lower back and rubbed, and she tossed him an easy smile.

  “You grab plates in that cupboard, and I’ll finish getting dinner ready.” She glanced down at her ruined dress and the red wine that had soaked in. “Um, let me quickly change, and then we’ll eat.”

  Ben didn’t say a word as she hurried to her bedroom. She shut the door and leaned against it, taking a minute to get her head together. Her conscience, that little voice that had been drowned out by the charms of Ben Wilde, was now poking her, asking what the hell she thought she was doing. Yup, as far as Ben Wilde was concerned, she realized that this man could definitely be her undoing.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ben didn’t know what had happened to the Carrie who had been in the kitchen when he first arrived, the one who’d responded so passionately to his kiss. When she came out of the bedroom, she was dressed in blue jeans and a baggy sweatshirt, and the easy smile she had been wearing had been replaced with awkwardness and distance. Before, she had pretty much been melting at his feet, and the heat and chemistry had had them both touching and reacting to the underlying currents zinging between them. It was as if she was anticipating problems, and he wondered for a moment whether the only thing she really understood, and continued to fall back on, was how to be miserable.

  “You’re right. You make the best meatloaf,” Ben said, setting his fork on the side of the worn dinner plate. She didn’t have fancy dishes or utensils. They were old, plain, mismatched, and most likely hand-me-downs. It was something he was familiar with, having grown up with it. Things had changed for him, as being successful had allowed him to have the finer things, but he realized those weren’t the sort of things that made life better.