“No need to start a crime spree. Not only do I have wine, I have a winecellar.”
“Really? Fancy.”
“Don’t get too excited.” I liked the way her lips quirked up when I said that, but I didn’t follow up on it. Not yet. “I only have six bottles in it, and three of them are the same kind. They’re what’s left of the case my brother brought as a housewarming gift.”
“Let’s hope I like it.”
I did hope she liked it, and the steak and salad I would feed her for dinner, and everything about my house because I liked having her here. Visiting, staying over, getting comfortable. I should blame Hayes and his state of wedded bliss for making me think so fondly about inviting a woman into my space. But the truth was, my thoughts were more about being with this particular woman than my friend’s bad influence. Maybe Bella wasn’t the only one who belonged here with me.
“Let’s go pick a bottle,” I said. “And I’ll show you where I keep the glasses.”
“After a glass of wine, I’d like to take a shower.”
The memory of how our day had started, with me in her shower, flashed through my mind. I took a calming breath and willed my body to stand down. Which worked about as well as I’d expected, which was not at all.
“Sure,” I said, hoping she wasn’t looking too closely at anything below my beltline. Then again, it wasn’t anything she hadn’t seen before. “I’ll show you where the towels are, too. Sorry, though, I don’t have any shampoo that smells like fruit.”
“That’s okay,” she grinned. “I don’t, either, although I do have leg-shaving cream that smells like strawberries.”
“That was shaving cream? I guess my high school French is a little rustier that I thought.” I ran my hand through my hair, which did feel a little gross. “I’ll need a shower tonight, too.”
We smiled and held each other’s gazes. I swear I felt her heartbeat, and my own sped up to sync with it. Just like this morning, her pupils were blown and her breaths were quick and shallow. Last time she’d looked at me that way, I’d nearly kissed her. Then all hell had broken loose. Maybe this time?—
She turned and pointed to the house. “We should get that wine and those towels.”
Her words broke through my daze. I’d hesitated and missed my chance, the exact opposite of what I’d been trained to do in the field. But I didn’t regret it. Cami had been through enough today. She had a lot to process.
Besides that, the woman was a guest in my home, and a potential witness placed under my protection. There was no way in hell I was going to make her uncomfortable for evena minute, or create the slightest appearance of expecting something from her in return. If anything was going to happen, she would have to make the first move. After that, I’d be happy to make the second, the third, the fourth through tenth.
“Kyle?”
I nodded. Stuff. She needed stuff. I was good at stuff. Christ, I could barely think in complete sentences. “Right. Let’s go. We’ll get your stuff.” I sighed and tried again. “We’ll get you everything you need to feel at home.”
12
CAMI
Either Kyle Rogers had nerves of steel or he just wasn’t that into me.
I’d sworn I’d felt sparks fly between us from the minute we ran into each other on Centennial Street. We’d continued flirting and nearly kissed Monday morning before being so rudely interrupted by the police. And he’d been like a sexy he-man protector when facing down the armed men who’d handcuffed me.
Then nothing. Kindness and continued protectiveness while he set me up in his house. Friendliness while he cooked for me and invited me to make myself at home. Interest as he asked questions about my life and shared some details from his. But the sparks had been doused with a bucket of cold water from his end, while I still felt fizzy and warm in special places when he flashed me a dimpled smile or brushed against me as we worked together in the kitchen.
A few times, I caught him watching me and I saw something in his eyes in the split second before he realized it. I thought it was lust, hunger, the same primeval longing I feltfor him. But then it was gone and he returned to being calm, cool, and unaffected by me.
In all my past relationships, physical and emotional connections had progressed in a straight line, whether going up or down. With Kyle, I couldn’t even see the graph. The signals he was sending were so scrambled, I’d lost all sense of direction.
Monday night, we had dinner and a glass of wine—the second for me, the first for him—and truly pleasant conversation. I shared details about my business. I told him that Doc, who was now in his 70s, had developed hand tremors a few years ago. He’d had to stop operating. Then his wife had fallen ill, and he’d had to cut back on clinic hours. Eventually, he’d sold the controlling share of the practice to me.
Kyle listened intently, asked gentle questions, and understood before I could tell him how scary it had been to buy a business at age thirty, long before I was ready to be the boss, because I it was the only hope of keeping the clinic going. I felt so close to him, I wanted to crawl into his arms so he could hold me all night.
After dinner, we cleared the dishes together. Then he led Bella upstairs to the crate we’d set up in the guest room and settled her in for the night. When he returned and set the receiving end of the monitoring system I’d brought from the clinic on the coffee table, I thought we’d settle in for more conversation or to watch a movie. Instead, he placed a pile of folded sheets beside the monitor and began arranging them on the sofa.
We hadn’t discussed sleeping arrangements, but it would be an understatement to say I was disappointed he didn’t even mention the possibility of sharing his bed.
“I can do that,” I told him. “You don’t need to make up my sheets.”
“These aren’t your sheets,” he said. “You’ll sleep in my bed.”
