Talking In Your Sleep...

by Hunter, Samantha

  Though he adored his sisters, Rafe always loved the horseplay with his male buddies that he didn’t get at home. The kids’ eyes shone with delight when he blasted them with the hose. Kids loved water, and they loved play-combat, and that was the same no matter what coast you were on.

  When he heard a sound behind him, he growled playfully and swung around. Gripping the trigger on the nozzle, he hosed the figure standing on the other side of the driveway—but it wasn’t one of the kids, and he released the hose trigger immediately, the jet stream of water flagging to a drizzle. Too late.

  “Oh, shit…Joy, I’m so sorry….” He heard the chuckles and catcalls of young boys behind him as they delighted in his mistake. “I thought you were one of the kids…. You know, we don’t always think in the heat of battle.”

  She stared at him silently, her lips pressed tightly together, her eyes cool—no, make that frosty. She was soaked from the blast; water was dripping down her cheeks.

  “Are you okay? I, uh, didn’t see you there.”

  She choked out a little laugh, one that didn’t sound humorous—this woman looked as if she was teetering on the edge. What he knew from growing up in a house with three sisters was that her black cloud of temper was centered on him, and it was about far more than getting soaked with a hose. His mind zipped to the tape and he intuited that it might not have gone over as well as he’d hoped.

  A few silly comments were still floating around the yard, and he waved his hand behind him, shooing the kids away. They complied, groaning about their fun ending, but Rafe was focused only on Joy and how she was continuing to glare at him.

  “How could you?” she finally said, her voice tight and low.

  “I told you, I didn’t know it was you….”

  “You know that’s not what I mean. This—” she looked down at her sopping-wet suit before continuing “—is adding insult to injury. What were you hoping to accomplish? Embarrass me? Get me fired? Is this some kind of sick revenge for your sleep problems?”

  He frowned, dropping the hose and stepping forward. “Revenge? For what? What are you talking about—why did you get fired?”

  “I didn’t get fired, but no thanks to you and your stupid…that awful…that…”

  She couldn’t seem to say the words. Much to his dismay, she choked back a sound that was half sob, half moan, which only seemed to add to her embarrassment as she lifted her hands to her face, her shoulders starting to quake.

  “Oh, no! Joy—you played that at work?”

  He thought back, remembering how she’d popped the disk in her bag. Never in his wildest imagination had he thought she’d play it anywhere public. He looked up—she made next to no sound, holding it all in, but her stiff shoulders hunched and he knew she was deeply upset. It struck him that what he’d done had been thoughtless, and he’d been so smug about it all day. He was ashamed about that; what had seemed like a good idea now appeared so stupid. Taking a step forward, he started to speak, and when she lowered her hands, her eyes were blazing.

  “Yes, I took it to work, you son of a bitch! I didn’t know what it was. I didn’t know some low-down Peeping Tom had videotaped me sleeping—what are you, some kind of sicko?”

  Low-down? Peeping Tom? “Now hold on just one second—I never intended for you to go and—”

  “Oh, so now this is my fault?” She wiped the tears from her eyes furiously, and he didn’t know what to say. This wasn’t exactly the end he’d imagined.

  “No, but I didn’t know what else to do, you were being so stubborn. You were all but accusing me of harassing you, and you were calling my name in your sleep, so I felt like I had to do something. I didn’t know how else to get you to believe me.”

  “Why? Why did you have to do this? Who cares if I sleep-talk, even if it is about you! That’s an accident, I don’t know why I’m dreaming about you, it just started, it’s just…I don’t know what it is, but it’s not a big deal. Believe me.”

  “Then why deny it so much? Why not just laugh it off?”

  “It was embarrassing.”

  “I would have understood. I told you, it keeps me up at night. I know about sleep problems. I know how difficult it can be. But you know, for the last night or two, it kept me awake for completely different reasons.”

  “Because you wanted to tape me and prove you were right.”

  “In part. But also because you’re turning me on, to be honest. I kind of like being in your dreams.”

  He thought a little flirting might help, but saw the disbelief and fury flash in her eyes. He took a step back as she took a step forward. Bad move, Raphael.

  “How dare you?” she shrieked, then she turned and stomped away from him, her shoes squeaking from the water, one heel sticking into the lawn and pulling from her foot altogether. She didn’t even stop to pick it up. Her bad day was his fault, even if he’d never meant for it to happen that way.

  “Dammit,” he cursed under his breath. “Joy!” he called out, not wanting to leave things this way. “Hey, come back. Let’s talk this out.”

  She kept walking to her car, grabbed her bag out, and didn’t even cast a dirty look in his direction as she marched up the steps and through the front door.

  “Well, that went badly,” he said, slamming his hand down on the hood and then checking to make sure he hadn’t dented Warren’s car.

  She’d said she hadn’t gotten fired, but apparently someone had heard that tape who shouldn’t have. He ran a hand over his face. While he’d never anticipated anything like that happening, he did share in the blame. After all, he’d made the tape and left it there, watched her take it to work. He’d guessed either she’d ignore it or listen to it when she got home, but that was no excuse. He’d screwed up big-time.

  He had to find a way to make it up to her. He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t let things stay as they were. When she’d stood there, furious and crying, it had been all he could do not to cross the driveway and take her in his arms, wipe away her tears.

  He didn’t know why the impulse was so strong—if he felt guilty, if he was really attracted to her, or just responding to her sexy nighttime chat. Either way, he knew he had to try to make things right. Maybe earn another chance with her.

  Most of his talents included life-saving techniques of some sort, and he’d never been accused of being the most romantic guy in the world. As he’d learned from the women in his household, when a guy screwed up this badly, comfort was a big necessity. With that thought, he knew exactly what to do.

  Chapter 5

  Joy left her soaked, wrinkled blue suit on the bathroom floor. Demoralized by the day and by breaking down in front of Rafe when she’d meant instead to be cool and intimidating, she stood in the shower relishing the feel of the hot water pounding down on her. In spite of the warm weather outside, the sweltering soak was good. Her muscles were more relaxed, and her headache had receded somewhat.

  She reassured herself the office gossip would quickly pass. As soon as something new came along, this incident would be forgotten—that was how office environments worked. If she made herself scarce, she’d weather the storm. She wasn’t used to being the subject of office gossip because she tried to be professional in every way. She’d always gotten along with everyone, and didn’t make a spectacle of herself at parties or public events, and then today she’d done so in spades.

  She closed her eyes as the thought triggered an awful reminder: the office Christmas party was next week, the day before they closed for the holiday.

  Great. It was like never-ending torture. She always hated the Christmas party; the food was bad, everyone drank too much, and Ken always insisted everyone stay until the end to exchange their gifts.

  She hadn’t even picked up a gift for her “secret Santa” contribution, and she wasn’t sure what to get. She’d pick up a gift certificate to one of the local stores or restaurants. It was a safe, neutral gift that someone might actually use—unlike the sensual massage kit for two that she
’d somehow garnered the year before. It still sat boxed up in the closet.

  Wrapped in a thick terry robe, she searched the kitchen, realizing she didn’t have any ice cream or much junk food around at all, but neither did she want to go to the store, so she settled for a bowl of cereal. Plopping down in front of the television, she clicked through the channels, groaning as Christmas shows, Christmas music, Christmas ads appeared on every single one of them.

  It was insanity. Couldn’t they broadcast a show that wasn’t about Christmas? There were millions of people like her, sane people who didn’t celebrate the holiday.

  She clicked off the television, opting to read for a while instead. She searched for the romance novel she’d been consuming in bits and chunks for what seemed to be forever, never sitting down with it long enough to get to the end. She needed a happy ending right now and was determined to enjoy the one between the pages.

  The room darkened, and as she reached for the light by the side of the sofa, she blinked at the flash of red then green on the wall opposite where she sat. At first she thought it might be a fire engine, but the green flash killed that thought. Walking to her front window, she saw the house across the street blinking and flashing madly, twinkling its Christmas cheer right into her dark windows.

  She couldn’t escape. It was everywhere.

  In the blinking red-and-green assault, she saw the shadow of a figure turn up her walk, heading to her porch. She frowned, squinting to see as the figure came closer.

  “Unbelievable!” she huffed, sliding away from the window. There was no way she was dealing with this man again—ever.

  The anticipated knock came, softly at first, then louder. He rang the bell, once, not giving up.

  She stood still, silent, only breathing when he turned and she heard his footsteps walk away.

  Her shoulders relaxed and she grabbed her book from the table, trying to escape the flashing lights by retreating to her bedroom. She’d cuddle up in bed and read, away from everyone. She took off her robe and crawled in under the cotton blanket, not bothering with a nightgown.

  Relaxing, finally, she settled back to open her book when some delectable aroma drifted through the window. Her stomach grumbled, clearly not satisfied with her bowl of cereal.

  “Joy?”

  She heard his voice and clutched the sheet, tugging it up close under her chin. She parted the curtains, peering through the crack—he was right there, right under her window. She turned off the light so he couldn’t see her.

  “Joy, I know you’re in there. I want to talk—to apologize. Will you let me do that?”

  She didn’t say anything, obsessed with the fact that he was only a few feet away from where she lay stark naked underneath a sheet in her bed, and while she wanted to be angry, her nipples pebbled against the soft fabric, warmth invading the space between her legs at the sound of his voice—this time it wasn’t in her dreams.

  “What do you want?” she snapped, disturbed at her own physical response. “Go away.”

  “No, not until you let me apologize correctly. I made you something. Let me bring it over—you can’t be going to bed yet, it’s only seven.”

  “I’m tired. I had a hard day, as you know,” she said accusingly.

  “I know. Don’t you even want to know what I made for you?”

  She blew out a breath, gathering the sheet up double and yanking the curtain aside. There he was, standing below her window like a beach-boy Romeo with his sexy eyes and ruffled hair. However, he wasn’t offering her a serenade or poetry. Her eyes drifted down to the foil-covered dish in his hands.

  “What’s that?”

  So she was curious. It didn’t mean anything.

  “It’s manicotti. Homemade.”

  “Really? By whom?”

  “By me. My mother taught me, and she’s been known to acknowledge, though not in public, that it might even be slightly tastier than her own.”

  She remained silent, not knowing how to respond.

  “I made it for you, Joy. I know it’s not enough to make up for what happened today, but I hope it’s a start. Let me come in? I’ll drop it off for you, apologize and leave. Okay?”

  The seductive aroma of the pasta was her undoing—her stomach was listening to Rafe even if she didn’t want to.

  “Okay. I’ll meet you on the porch.”

  No way was she letting him step inside.

  She yanked on a pair of jeans she had thrown over a chair and grabbed a tank top, then headed for the door. She could still smell the manicotti. If she were a stronger woman, a less hungry woman, maybe she could have resisted, but she hadn’t had homemade manicotti in, well…ever. Her father hadn’t had much time to cook, and she followed in his footsteps in that way, too. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door.

  She wasn’t sure what made her knees weaker—the smell of the food or the image of Rafe standing there in jeans, a white T-shirt that said Little Italy in faded letters and oven mitts up to his elbows as he held out the hot pan. He slanted a charming smile that she found far too sexy, though his eyes communicated nothing but sincerity.

  “It’s hot. You got somewhere I can put this down?”

  So much for not letting him inside.

  “Uh, yeah. Here, follow me to the kitchen.”

  As she walked, she realized she hadn’t thrown on a bra in her haste and she covered her chest with her arms, nodding to the butcher block near the stove. She had little counter space and made up for it with added pieces, the butcher block, the small table in the center with two chairs, though she rarely used both.

  “You can set it there. It will be okay on the wood.”

  He did and stripped off the oven mitts as he did so, revealing strong, tanned forearms. All of her hunger signals were getting mixed up—did she want manicotti or the guy who’d made it?

  Stop, she ordered herself, shifting from foot to foot as they stared at each other quietly. She knew she was supposed to say something, but she didn’t.

  “Okay, well, listen. I hope you enjoy it—it freezes well, so when it cools down, you can cut it up into portions and have dinner for a month. I just wanted to say I’m sorry—about the tape, and the hose, uh, mistake. I didn’t mean any harm, and you know, I’ll leave you alone now,” he said with an air of finality and turned toward the doorway, grabbing his mitts as he went.

  She stepped forward, unsure why, but words were coming out of her mouth before she could stop them. “Um, this is an awful lot of food—have you had dinner?”

  He turned, his smile brighter, his eyes more hopeful. Dammit. He had gorgeous eyes, a velvet-brown that drew her in, fringed with the long, thick lashes men were so often unfairly graced with.

  “Thanks—I am starving, but I wanted this to be a gift. You sure you want to share?”

  He was offering her an out. But he had made her a nice dinner, and she’d invited him. So they’d share some food, make nice conversation, and her day would end on a better note than it had started.

  “Yes, please, let me get the plates, and you can serve. I don’t have any fancy kitchenware, but what I’ve got is in the drawer there,” she babbled, pointing and then turning away in order to compose herself while she got some plates. She rarely had guests for dinner, meeting people out in restaurants instead.

  “As long as we can lift out a few pieces, I think that’s the basic requirement. My mom says the TV cooking shows have been great for gadget sales, but they make people think that working in a kitchen is more complicated than it needs to be.”

  She smiled, her spirit lightening as she reached into the cupboard.

  “I know,” she added, taking out two plates. “Same with the organizational experts—you know, the people who go on the morning shows and clean up someone’s messy office by stacking all kinds of new bins and baskets and labeling everything? Like that does any good,” she said as she turned back to where he carefully lifted the manicotti from the pan.

  Her mouth literally watered whi
le she watched the cheese stretch as he put a large helping on a plate.

  “Exactly,” he agreed.

  The heady aroma nearly brought her to her knees, and she blanked her mind when she started to calculate calories. Fat content be damned.

  “If people aren’t organized in the first place, adding more buckets and shelves for them to put stuff in will only make the initial problems worse in the long run,” he continued.

  She stood holding both plates of manicotti, staring at him as if she was seeing him for the first time. Not as the guy who was bugging her about sleep-talking, not as the erotic lover of her dreams, and not as the idiot who’d almost gotten her in deep trouble at work.

  She saw a nice, handsome guy with whom she was actually comfortable for more than five minutes at a time. Someone who didn’t act as if she had to prove her worth or meet some invisible expectation. Someone who’d brought her dinner. Who had made her dinner.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, breaking her out of her fugue. “Let me take those, they have to be getting heavy—you want to sit down in the other room or here?”

  She blinked as he took the plates. “Here at the table is good. That smells so good I could cry,” she said sincerely and then caught his eye as he put the plates down. His face had become far more serious suddenly, and the atmosphere shifted between them.

  “I don’t want to make you cry again, that’s for sure, Joy. I couldn’t be sorrier about the first time.”

  He sat, indicating that he wanted her to start first, his hands at his sides as she took a bite and closed her eyes in bliss.

  “Let’s not talk about that. This is so good I can’t even begin to tell you.”

  He grinned. “Thanks. Mom would be pleased. Well, maybe not that I helped screw up your day, but that her cooking lessons worked.”

  “She must be a fabulous cook.”

  “Straight from heaven,” he agreed, digging in to his own dinner.

  “Are you an only child?”