She couldn’t speak, couldn’t think of a thing to say. Her eyes seemed to be the only body part functioning.
He wore a stack of black leather bracelets on one wrist, with those ornately carved rings she’d noticed before on each thumb, and when he reached for her to invite her in, her mouth felt as if it had been swabbed with a giant ball of cotton. The only way he could look any better was if he were naked and her hands were exploring his body. A rush of heat rose to her face, and she averted her gaze for a moment in an attempt to collect herself.
“Welcome back.” He dipped his head, touching his lips to her cheek, then shut the door behind her.
Her nostrils flared as she inhaled the warm scent of his cologne. She felt her body arch toward him, wanting the smell to stay as concentrated as possible in her lungs. Normally she didn’t care for a man’s potent aftershave but his was heavenly, almost addictive. She thrust the wine bottle into his hands.
“Thank you.” His eyes raked her up and down then crinkled at the corners. “You look great. We’re a matched pair.”
She glanced at her lacy brown cardigan and smoothed down the fabric of her colorful dress. It coordinated perfectly with his chocolate brown shirt. She liked the way that sounded—amatched pair—and smiled up at him. “Thanks. We must be on the same wavelength tonight.”
“Yes, there does seem to be an uncanny connection between us.” He paused and a shiver of excitement prickled her skin. “How was parking? I hope you used my building valet.”
“I...uh...had to take a cab. It’s raining, and I didn’t want to drive the motorcycle.”
“Do you not own a sedan? Is the Triumph your only mode of transportation?”
“It is right now. My mother’s car is in the repair shop.” She liked that he referred to her— “How did you know I drive a Triumph?”
Something flashed across his expression then was gone.
“Bonneville. It was parked outside the art school. I saw you leave. A woman like you on a Bonnie is hard to forget.”
She wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so she smiled and looked around as he ushered her inside. Her gaze fell to an ethereal blown-glass sculpture, lit from above, displayed magnificently on a wooden stand near the windows. How could she have missed that vibrant yellow color and the unmistakable fluted shape when she was here last week?
“Is that a Chihuly? Is it new? I’d have noticed it when I was here before.” Without waiting for him, she walked through the living room and stopped a few feet away.
“His work is unmistakable, isn’t it?” he said, approaching from behind. “No, it’s not new. I purchased the piece almost five years ago, right after I moved to Seattle. It was in my office, but I moved it here because I thought you’d enjoy seeing it. You can get closer to it. It won’t bite, I promise.”
She laughed. “Trust me. Breakables and I don’t mix. This is as close as I get.”
“Have a seat then and admire it while I finish a few things in the kitchen. Can I get you a glass of wine? Red or white?”
“White, but let me help. I’m not much of a cook, but I can chop, stir, whisk and I’m pretty good at tasting.”
“Good. I need help with all of the above.”
He touched the small of her back, guiding her to an upholstered bar stool at the kitchen counter. Even through her clothing, his hand felt heavy and warm.
He grabbed a bottle of wine and with a few twists, it was uncorked, two glasses were filled and he was offering one to her. A small cutting board with an onion and a knife sat just out of reach on the counter.
“Can you slide that over? Do you want it chopped in little pieces or in slices?”
A strange expression flashed across his face before he smiled. “No knives. Is peeling in your repertoire? You can peel a few carrots, if you’d like.”
Either he didn’t want her to use one of his fancy chef knives, or he was just particular how the onions were cut. “Funny you should ask, because I happen to be an expert carrot peeler.”
He handed her a vegetable peeler, several carrots, and a bowl for scraps. With his fingers tucked under like a professional chef, he began to chop the onion with the speed and precision of someone who did it for a living.
“How long have you worked as a location scout?” he asked. “How did you get the job?”
“I’ve been working on and off for Steve about six years now. He and my father were friends. After my father...” She cleared her throat and started peeling. “When he died, my mother eventually moved us up here, and he hired me part-time because he knew I liked photography.”
“Your father— How long has he been gone?”
“He passed away when I was a kid.”
“So, it’s just you and your mother?”
