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Does he look…relieved? Like he was worried I was cooking for a date?
No, it’s my imagination running wild. Why would Colin Hathaway possibly care if I had a date? I suppose he might be really invested in the garlic and lemon butter he’s hoping to eat, but other than that, he surely couldn’t care less.
“Come on in.” I signal for him to follow, leaving the door open.
“One sec. I need to grab a couple things,” he calls, his voice retreating in the distance. I vaguely wonder what things he’s referring to, but maybe he needs a personal electric fan because my kitchen is pretty warm from cooking.
I go back to stirring my sauce, and Colin shows up a couple minutes later with a bottle of wine from a neighboring vineyard. “Is this sacrilege, bringing something from another winery onto the property?” He asks the question, but if he really cared about the answer, he wouldn’t be holding a bottle from Caymus.
“Did you do some wine tasting today?” The one morning I ran into Colin at the café, he told me he didn’t plan to leave the property, other than to go hiking. “Venturing back into the public eye?”
His eyes go wide, realizing what he’s unintentionally done. “Oh shit. I was driving back after my hike and stopped at Caymus because my assistant likes it. I bought her a case. I didn’t do any tasting. I was there for like five minutes. Did I just fuck up my publicist’s whole strategy for laying low?”
I hand him a breadstick, take out a corkscrew, and go over to my cabinet for some glasses. “Doubtful. Did anyone take photos?”
He looks around my kitchen as though paparazzi may be lurking in the corners. Then he takes the corkscrew from me and opens the wine. “I don’t think so.”
“So don’t worry about it. Besides, you know I don’t really agree with this PR strategy anyway.”
He pours a bit of the rich cabernet and hands me the glass for a taste. I swirl the burgundy liquid and let it roll over my tongue. “They make a good cab,” I admit. “Not as good as ours, but good.”
He fills my glass and pours wine into his own. Holding his glass up, he proposes a toast, “To good cabs and bad publicists.”
I laugh and take a sip before returning to the stove to dump my pasta into the strainer and add it to the sauce.
Colin pulls out a chair and sits at my table. “Someday, you’ll have to tell me what you’d do if you were mine.”
My breath catches as I inhale, but I have my back to Colin so I don’t think he notices.If you were mine…My reaction to his words surprises me. I know he’s merely talking about what I’d do if I worked as his publicist, but I can’t help the way my skin heats at the suggestion of beinghisin other ways.
“This kitchen gets so warm when I cook,” I grumble, reaching for the latch to pry open the window above the sink. It sticks, so I give it a shove to no avail.
I flinch when Colin’s large form approaches behind me. He braces a hand on the sink and reaches around me to give the window a sharp push, his bicep grazing my arm as his body leans into mine.
The sharp intake of air into my lungs startles me. It’s a direct reaction to having Colin so close to me, and every fiber of my being wills him to stay right where he is. I have to work to stop myself from leaning into him, feeling his chest more fully against my back. I fight against my reaction to his smell, something like fresh pine needles underfoot after it rains.
Once the window cracks open, a welcome ribbon of crisp air cools my heated cheeks, but I don’t dare turn around, lest Colin see exactly how much his proximity affects me.
I edge around the kitchen with my back to him, puttering uselessly over my dinner until it’s ready. By then, I’ve regained some composure, even though I haven’t actually spoken in five minutes.
When I turn around, Colin is sitting at the table again, sipping his wine and observing me whirl around the kitchen. A hint of amusement creases the corners of his eyes, and I press my lips together.
“You okay?” he asks, unable to keep the smile from his voice.
“Yeah. Um, so, it’s ready.”
“Awesome. What can I do?” He stands, but I quickly point him back to his seat, not wanting to risk him coming closer.
“Stay.” I realize I sound like I’m taming a dog. “I mean, you’re good there. I’ll bring you a plate.” Colin sits at the table watching me, and it occurs to me that he does this a lot. Quietly files away information.
Maybe that’s part of his brilliance. He watches the world around him without feeling the need to talk it through. I tell myself not to make anything more of his eyes on me than that. He’s a scientist. He observes.
But it feels different now.
Because now I’m observing him.
I’m curious about how I could sit across the table from him and play chess three days in a row without feeling the heat, and now he almost has me breaking out in a sweat tonight. I’m not sure what to do because he’s sitting next to the chair where I have my glass of wine.
Sitting that close to him seems dangerous, but the chair opposite him is wedged between the table and the wall, making it awkward to sit there. I’d have to move the table, which makes no sense.
