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“It’s very you. The house, I mean.”
He chuckled and then gave her his back as he made them coffee. “You mean stiff, boring, and old?”
Rearing back, Kelsie shook the head. “What? No. That’s not what I meant at all. Did someone call you that?”
His strong shoulders rose and fell.
None of those words ever came to mind when she thought of him.
“It’s neat and clean, which doesn’t surprise me at all. You seem like someone who likes his ducks in a row. I imagine it’s important to be organized when you run a business. It’s also modern in here without being cold. I don’t know why anyone would call it boring. I think it’s perfect for you. It’s masculine without being in-your-face, I’m-such-a-man macho.”
He pushed a button on the machine and then turned with a raised eyebrow. “I’m-such-a-man macho?”
Cheeks warm, Kelsie looked away. He was too damn attractive, and when he got that amused look, it only made him hotter. “Yeah, you know the type. Posters of naked women on the walls, a giant stereo system, and a freezer full of Hot Pockets. The kind of guys who always feel the need to prove their masculinity.”
That had him laughing out loud. “You haven’t snooped in my freezer. It could be overflowing with Hot Pockets.”
“Nah,” she grinned at him, “I’m not worried.”
As he turned back to deal with the coffee, Kelsie took the opportunity to get a better feel for the place. His kitchen had stark white cabinets, white marble countertops, stainless steel appliances, and a large island with a sink and plenty of space to prepare food was situated in the center of the room. Behind her, the kitchen opened to a moderate den. A large-screen television was mounted to the wall directly opposite the kitchen, and a plush black couch faced it. The only thing out of place was an open motorcycle magazine on a wooden coffee table in front of the couch.
Masculine without being macho.
Like Ty.
Not that she knew him well enough to make sweeping statements about his personality, but she knew a bit.
When she turned back, he was holding two coffee mugs. “Grab a seat,” he said, nudging his chin toward the couch.
She frowned. Something in his voice had a twist of unease curling in her stomach. “Okay.” She did as asked, and he handed her a full coffee mug. “Thanks.” He hadn’t bothered to ask how she took it. One glance revealed it was as light as she preferred. She sniffed. Vanilla. Her favorite. She took a tentative sip. No one could call her a coffee snob. She liked it light, sweet, and so vanilla it could be mistaken for ice cream, exactly like the mug in her hands.
How had he known?
“I pay attention,” he answered without her having to voice the question.
“Oh, well, thank you. It’s perfect.”
He chuckled. “It’s disgusting.”
“Let me guess, you drink it black?”
“Sure do. Like an I’m-such-a-man man.”
That had her laughing, and the twinge of discomfort she’d experienced a moment ago fled.
Until he opened his mouth again. “Okay, times up. Start talking.”
Her stomach sank. “W-what do you mean?”
His narrowed eyes screamed don’t play dumb.
“I don’t really want to talk about it.” Ever. To anyone.
Ty set his mug on the coffee table—with a Harley coaster, of course—then gave her the full weight of his somber stare.
Oh, how she hated that look. It made her want to tell him. To open up and word vomit everything she’d tucked away into a corner of her brain to fester and rot until it drove her to the brink. Wasn’t that the healthy way to deal with trauma?
“Look, Ty, I’m sorry about what happened this morning, but I don’t need a lecture on how badly things could have gone or how violence isn’t the answer. I don’t need or want you to play the fatherly role and try to get me to open up. I recognize I have more issues than that biker magazine you have there.”
