He moves closer and gazes down at me. Did I mention he’s probably a foot taller than I am? Yeah, well, when he stands right next to me, I become acutely aware of his superior size, and something about his overpowering maleness sends a pulse of heat right through me. A pulse that I immediately suppress as I remind myself that my boyfriend just dumped me and I have no desire to get involved with another man who will most likely dump me as soon as he gets what he wants.
“What makes you so sure you’ll be gone by then?” he asks.
His nearness makes it hard for me to think clearly, so I take a step back. I look at him and can see that he knows the impact he’s having on me. Torn between not liking the way he makes me feel, and loving the way he makes me feel, I scowl. “How long do you expect this storm to last, anyway?”
“Hard to say, but I always prepare for at least a week.”
“A week?” The idea scares the living daylights out of me.
He smiles. “Don’t worry, Ashley. I won’t let you starve.”
Starving is the least of my worries. My worries are more centered on how long I can hold out before I give in to my growing attraction.
Ten
DRAKE
Holding back a smile, I stare down at Ashley. I can tell she’s attracted to me, and I readily admit I’m becoming more captivated by her. Yes, Rachel is always in the back of my mind, but in my heart it seems that she and I are coming to an end. I just haven’t told her yet. Maybe that makes me a scoundrel, but I can’t seem to help myself.
I find Ashley Spencer intriguing in a way I haven’t found a woman intriguing for a long time. And I like it. A lot.
I gaze at her and wonder how it would feel to press my lips against hers, then feel a jolt at the thought. I’ve just met this woman. I know nothing about her. Still, my gaze slides to her mouth and I wonder.
ASHLEY
Desperate to change my train of thought, I ask him, “Are you done chopping the firewood?”
His gaze jumps from my mouth to my eyes, and his green eyes bore into mine. “Yep. We should be fine for a quite a while.”
Captured by his gaze, I try to turn my mind in another direction. “That looked like it was a lot of work.”
He smiles. “It was. But I like physical labor. It clears my head.”
I nod like I agree—which I don’t, because I hate physical labor.
“Maybe you can fix us something for lunch,” he says.
“Me?”
His smile grows. “Yes, you. You’ve been sitting on your butt all morning while I’ve been out chopping wood.” He gives me a look that says I’m in charge here and you’ll do what I say. “It’s the least you can do. Anyway, I need to shower.” He turns to go. “Tuna is fine for me. I like it with a slice of tomato on toasted sourdough.” He throws me a smirk before walking out of the office.
I stare after him, kind of stunned at the way he’s treating me like his personal maid. Or chef. Or whatever. I decide that I don’t like to be bossed around, so instead of making us lunch like he’s asked—no, demanded—I carry my book into the living room, stretch out on the couch, prop my foot up on the stack of pillows, and open to page one.
Twenty minutes later I find myself absorbed in the story, so I'm somewhat startled when Drake stomps over to me and stops next to the couch. Okay, maybe he doesn’t stomp, but he seems a wee bit unhappy.
As my eyes travel up his body I notice he’s wearing a pair of grey sweats topped by a snug t-shirt. What is it with him and tight t-shirts? Doesn’t he have any that fit properly? Not that I mind. Every time I see those biceps, a little flutter twirls around in my stomach.
“If I may interrupt your reading, princess,” he says, smiling sweetly.
I remember his request for lunch and feel a tinge of guilt that I’ve done nothing to comply. But he isn’t the boss of me, and anyway, I'm a guest here, so my guilt quickly washes away. “Yes?”
He tilts his head, like Uh, isn’t it obvious?
“Did you need something?” I ask, all wide-eyed innocence.
“I thought I asked you to make us lunch.”
“Oh, you did. But I decided not to.” At the look of frustration on his face, I bite my lip to hold back a smile.
“And why is that?”
I hold out the book. “I wanted to get started on my book.” As he stares at me, I wonder what he’s thinking, but after a moment a smile blooms on his mouth, and then he begins to laugh.
“You are something else,” he says.
I get the distinct impression that he isn’t used to having his demands ignored, but at least he laughed about it. The other option—perhaps tossing me into the storm—sounds less pleasant.
His laughter slows to an occasional chuckle. “Now get off your sweet little behind and come make lunch.”
Flattered by his comment, and deciding I really should help out, I swing my feet to the floor and sit on the edge of the couch. He hasn’t moved, and I wonder if he’s waiting to make sure I actually go into the kitchen.
“How’s your ankle?” he asks.
“Not too bad.”
“Good. I want to make sure you can stand on it long enough to make our lunch.” His eyes kind of twinkle as he speaks.
When I start walking, I hardly feel any pain, but walk with a slight limp anyway. No reason for him to think I’m completely better. If he does, he’s apt to ask me to scrub the toilets and floors.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks, concern clear on his face.
“I’ll survive,” I say, trying to keep the dramatic flair out of my voice to avoid rousing his suspicion that I’m faking it.
“Hmm.”
I don’t know what that means, but I continue to hobble along after him. When we reach the kitchen, he points to various places.
“The tuna’s in there,” he says. “The mayo’s in the fridge, the tomatoes are in that bowl, and the bread is on the counter.”
I blink a few times, wondering why he feels he can tell me what to do. “You’re not much of a host, are you?”
He actually has the nerve to look offended. “What, you think you’re just a guest here?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Why? I didn’t invite you to come for a visit.”
His sharp tone hurts my feelings, and annoying tears try to fill my eyes. Not wanting him to see the effect his words have on me, I walk to the cupboard where he said the tuna fish is stored and open the door. The cupboard is well stocked with canned goods—with the way the storm keeps blowing, I'm happy to see that. But the tuna is on the top shelf, and even on my tiptoes there is no way I will be able to reach it.
Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of asking for his help, I walk right past him and grab the back of a kitchen chair, drag it across the tile, then set it in position. With one hand on the back of the chair and the other on the counter, I stand there a moment, wondering how I'm going to do this.
Even though my ankle feels better, I’m a little worried about re-injuring it, and if I put my bad foot on the chair, I’ll have to use that foot to hoist myself up. That has the potential to injure it again. But if I put my good foot on the chair, I’ll have to put all of my weight on my bad ankle. Not an ideal option either.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Drake watching me, and decide I'm going to make this work one way or the other, and decide option two is the best way to go. I lift my good foot to the chair, but a twinge in my injured ankle quickly makes me set my good foot back on the floor. Next, I lift my bad foot and place it on the chair instead, but as I'm about to hoist myself up, Drake storms over.
“Oh, for crap’s sake,” he says. “Why don’t you just ask me to get it down?” He reaches the top shelf and easily lifts a can from the stack, then sets it in front of me. “There.”
Still facing the chair, I turn my head and look at him—he’s standing only inches away—and glare. “Why’d you ask me to get it down in the first place when you knew I couldn’t reach it?”
/> A smile lifts the corners of his mouth. “I guess I didn’t take into account the fact that you’re the size of a hobbit.”
My eyebrows draw together. “I’m way taller than a hobbit. I’m five foot three.”
I can tell he’s trying to hold back a laugh. “Oh,” he says. “Well, then. Excuse me.”
Though I want to laugh with him, I’m also sort of irritated at the way he’s treating me. “Where’s your damn can opener?”
He reaches behind me and pulls open a drawer, lifts out a hand-crank can opener, then sets it next to the tuna. “There you go.”
I turn so my back is pressed against the counter. He stands only inches away, but I face him full-on. “I guess you think you’re funny.”
He gazes down at me, my words evidently not making him feel bad at all. Then without any warning whatsoever, he puts his hands on both sides of my face, then leans towards me and kisses me.
Eleven
ASHLEY
The pressure of his lips on mine fills me with an unexpected wanting. Still, I'm taken completely by surprise, and as if by instinct, I punch him in the stomach. But it’s like hitting a concrete wall. Even so, it gets his attention, because he releases me and takes a step back.
With a look of contrition, he says, “I’m sorry, Ashley. I shouldn’t have done that.”
I stare at him, my body’s response completely betraying me. I'm supposed to be staying away from men, yet desire rips through me in waves. But I can’t let him know that. I’ve decided that he’s not my type at all—too bossy and overpowering. Sure, he’s sexy as can be, but I can’t see myself with a man who tells me what to do all the time.
I'm an independent woman—at least I want to be one—so having a man who thinks he can order me around doesn’t fit with my vision of myself. I have to put this man in his place, let him know that just because he thinks he’s all that, doesn’t mean he is.
In truth, he is all that—and more. But I have to keep the upper hand in this . . . relationship . . . or whatever it is we have going.
“No,” I finally say after I’ve gotten my body under control. “No, you shouldn’t have.” I pause, preparing to tell a fib. “I do have a boyfriend, remember.” There. That should do it. Although to be honest, I'm not sure I want to scare him off with my phantom boyfriend.
He takes a step back and gazes at me. “I’ll be in the living room. We can eat lunch in there.” Then he turns and saunters away.
I watch his retreating back—wide shoulders and narrow waist—and half-wish I hadn’t mentioned the phantom boyfriend, although I'm not sure how much of a deterrent it was anyway. Clearly, Colton Drake is attracted to me, but I have to be strong. I have to stick to my guns. No men. Not now. Not for a long while. They only bring me heartache, and I’m just not ready to let my heart get broken again.
Turning to the tuna fish and can opener on the counter, I focus on the task at hand. As much as it annoys me to be told what to do, I'm glad to have an excuse to not be in the same room as Colton Drake. I need some time to collect myself, to let myself cool down before I face him again.
I make two sandwiches the way he asked, put them on plates, add some potato chips, then carry them into the living room. He is stretched out on the couch, his feet up on my stack of pillows.
“Comfy?” I ask as I set a plate on his rock-hard abs, then sit on a recliner next to the couch and put up the foot rest.
He sits up in one fluid motion, lifting the plate from his stomach. “Yep. I might even take a nap.”
I half-smile. “I guess all that hard work this morning must have tuckered you right out.” Lifting the sandwich to my mouth, I watch him out of the corner of my eye.
He takes a large bite out of his sandwich, and after swallowing, he looks at me. “You didn’t spit on this or anything, did you?”
I laugh, but don’t respond.
Lifting the top slice of bread, he examines the tomato and tuna, then puts it back together and takes another large bite.
Continuing to eat, I hold back a smile. After a few minutes, I look at him. “Do you think it’s too stormy to build a snowman?”
He’s holding a chip to his lips, but pauses, looking at me like I'm a lunatic. “Uh, yeah.”
I try to hide my disappointment. “Oh.”
He shakes his head. “Why do you want to build a snowman so bad?”
“I’ve never built one before.” My voice is soft as I speak.
“Wait, what?” He eats another chip as he watches me.
“I’m not from around here, for your information. In fact, I’ve never been in the snow before.”
“Where are you from?
“Las Vegas.”
“And you’ve never been to the snow?”
“Is that so unusual?”
He laughs. “No, I suppose not, but I’m just surprised.” His smile grows. “I guess we’ll have to fix that, won’t we?”
“So, we can build a snowman?”
“Sure.”
I smile, happy to have some good news for a change.
“Just not right now.”
My face falls. “Oh.”
“When the storm’s done, and if you’re ankle’s better, then we can build a snowman.” He grins. “Maybe have a snowball fight while we’re at it.”
That sounds like fun. I relish the idea of throwing a few snowballs at him for making me fix him lunch when not only am I a guest, but my ankle still hurts. Which reminds me . . . “Did you mean that earlier? When you said I'm not a guest?”
His smile dims. “Sort of.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you’re kind of a guest, since you don’t live here, but I need you to pull your weight too. You know, help out a little.”
His explanation makes me feel better. “Okay. That seems fair.”
Leaning back on the couch, he says, “Good. Now can you get us something to drink? I’d like milk.”
I set my plate on the floor, then turn to him with a smirk of my own. “Do you want that with chocolate?”
He smiles. “Yeah. That would be great.”
Knowing his gaze will be on my backside, I sashay away—at least as best I can while limping. Back in the kitchen, I fix two large glasses of chocolate milk using the syrup I find in the fridge. As I put the syrup back on the shelf, something catches my eye and I take it out.
A moment later I carry the two glasses back into the living room and hand one to Drake, then sit in the recliner. Out of the corner of my eye I see him watching me. I try to hide a smile, but fail, then I turn and look at him.
His gaze goes from my face to the whipped cream that adorns his chocolate milk, and back to my face.
“What?” I finally ask. “I thought you’d like some whipped cream.”
His smiles. “You’re right.”
“There you go.” Then I take a drink of my chocolate milk.
“Why don’t you have any?” he asks, then he takes a drink, which leaves a whipped cream mustache.
I laugh and point to his mouth. “Because I don’t want to look like that.”
Grinning, he wipes a finger across his mouth, then licks it clean. “Mmm. That’s good.”
I smile, then continue eating my sandwich.
DRAKE
I’m having a good time with Ashley’s sassy attitude. I haven’t had so much fun bantering with a woman in a long time.
Rachel’s too serious.
I feel disloyal for thinking it, but that doesn’t change the truth of the statement. Then I think of the kiss I planted on Ashley before lunch and a slow smile curves my mouth. Until I remember that she has a boyfriend.
Pushing down the disappointment that swells within me, I keep eating.
Twelve
ASHLEY
When we finish eating, Drake walks over to me, then stands in front of me with his hand out. “You made lunch, so I’ll clean up.”
This is unexpected. I hand him my plate and glass. “Thanks.”
He smiles. “Thanks for making lunch. It was good, and I like how you added the relish.”
His praise warms me, but as he speaks, my gaze slides to his full lips, and the memory of our kiss washes over me. I frantically try to think of something else to take my mind away from how much I want him to kiss me again. “It’s an old family recipe,” I finally say, glad to turn my mind to food instead of the sweet pressure of his mouth on mine.
“Oh yeah? I didn’t know tuna fish has been around that long.”
I laugh. “Okay, it’s the way my mom taught me to do it.”
He nods, then carries our dishes into the kitchen. I hear the water running, then it stops, and a moment later he comes back into the living room.
“You need to put your foot up,” he declares as he looks down at me.
I like that he’s thinking of me, but it’s making me like him even more, which is bad. To counteract those feelings, I raise an eyebrow and ask, “Are you sure you’re done using the couch?”
“Yes.” He smiles. “Besides, I’m sure you want to get back to Frodo and his adventures.” His smile grows. “You know, since you’re so hobbit-like.”
With mock-outrage, I stand in front of him, standing as straight as I can, but the top of my head barely reaches his shoulder. “If I were a hobbit, I’d only come to about here.” I poke him in the abdomen as I speak, then look up at his face.
He gazes down at me, his face serious. His lips part, like he’s going to say something, then his lips compress and he takes a step back. “I’ll help you get the pillows under your foot.”
Disappointment spreads over me, but then I mentally scold myself.
What did you expect him to do? You told him you have a boyfriend, making it perfectly clear you’re unavailable. And anyway, that’s for the best. You’ll probably be gone sometime tomorrow and then you’ll never see Colton Drake again. Why get all tangled up with him now? It’s not like he means anything to you.
Drake and Ashley: The Complete Story Page 4
