“No, of course not. It’s just that I couldn’t get ahold of you any other way. I made all this food and didn’t want it to go to waste.”
She shoves the stack of containers toward me, and I stare down at it, unmoving and unwilling to take the bait. My hands clench in fists at my sides before I purposely cross them over my bare chest in defiance.
But this doesn’t deter her one bit, and I don’t know if that makes me like her more or less or find her more attractive. It’s a toss-up at the moment.
Hesitating only for a moment more, she pinches her brows together and frowns disapprovingly before clutching the food to her chest, then skirts past me through my open doorway. Right into my apartment.
I gawk at her audacity but say nothing. I turn to watch her over my shoulder as she makes her way into the kitchen. Finding space on the counter, she sets the containers down before opening the fridge and rummaging around for God knows what.
“Please come in and make yourself at home,” I deadpan. “But I’ll have you know your efforts are for nothing and the food will just go to waste. I already ate dinner tonight, and I rarely eat meals at home.”
She bends over at the waist, the position lifting the bottom of her shorts, so a peek of curvy ass winks at me, as if to say, “you know you want it.” It begs the question of whether it’s the food or the woman I might crave later.
She arranges the containers in the fridge, tilting her head toward me to the side, a smile edging at the corner of her mouth, pity lacing over her pretty lips.
“Well, that’s just sad, Miles. Everyone should have home-cooked meals every once in a while. My family used to have Sunday dinners, and we’d eat leftovers for days.”
Out of nowhere, a pang of grief hits me squarely in my chest. The memory of my baby sister standing on a stepstool at the stove, Granny next to her in her apron as she instructed Mel on the finer points of making her famous fried chicken. To this day, I don’t think I’ve ever found a replacement for Granny’s food.
“Miles, are you okay?”
I blink, startled that Sutton is now so close, the warmth of the memory immediately fading and turning cold. My gaze drops to where Sutton places a gentle hand on my forearm, where the soft brush of her fingertips sends darts shooting up my arm and into my chest.
This does not help matters one bit. I don’t need her kindness, and I don’t want her pity.
Wrenching my arm away from her, I once again cross my arms at my chest. Her smile dims. No longer is there empathy or sympathy in her bright eyes, now they’re flooded with sadness.
Fuck me, I’m such an asshole.
Clearing my throat, I shake my thoughts free. Goddamn, this woman. She’s making me out to be the bad guy here. I never even invited her in. She’s an uninvited interloper, forcing me to feel things I don’t want to feel.
But the warmth still lingers where her fingers wrapped around my arm. Human touch—at least the type that doesn’t lead to sex—is something I haven’t had for months. Maybe even years.
Ever since Mel died.
“Yeah, yeah. . . I’m fine, just tired, Sutton, and I want to go to bed. I was on a business trip and have had a busy day. I just really need you to go home.”
Disappointment clouds her pupils, and her cheeks flush pink. Her hand flits in the space between us.
“Oh, oh, of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to impose. I just really wanted to express my gratitude for your help the other night finding Blackie. And I swear, I’m not usually that irresponsible. It’s not an excuse, but with the chaos and circumstances—”
I interrupt her, circling back toward the door, hoping she’ll get the hint and follow. “Whatever. No need for explanations. It’s over and done with.”
I hold the door open for her and turn to find her still rooted in the same spot, and I groan, dropping my chin to my chest. She’s stalling and obviously wants to say something else but hesitates.
“Miles, I um, I also wanted to talk to you about—”
I know what she’s about to say, so I interrupt her again. “Sutton, it’s cool. I didn’t and won’t mention anything to Graham about Blackie running off. And unless something else happens, I don’t plan on getting you fired.”
She blanches, either not expecting me to say that or surprised I would protect her in that way. Whatever the case, I wave my hand and work to usher her out the door.
Taking a few steps forward, she pauses, biting down on that full lower lip again, which I can’t stop staring at, then she finally makes her way to the doorway. As she passes, I catch a whiff of her light, sweet scent. A lemony-fresh soap smell and something sweet. Like a sugar cookie.
Another memory jostles loose in my head, taking me back to the day of Mel’s funeral. I was standing over her casket, my eyes red-rimmed, and my body filled with rage and anger. Someone came up behind me, as my head fell between my shoulders, and I felt the gentle pressure of a hand on my back. It was warm and provided a sense of peace. And somehow her scent evokes that same feeling.
Odd. I fucking need some sleep.
“Thank you, Miles. I appreciate that. I really need this job. And thanks again for your help.” She takes a step and stops, turning to look over her shoulder at me. “I left reheating instructions on the lids and my number in case you have questions. Feel free to leave the empties outside my door whenever you’re done. Good night, Miles. I hope I’ll see you around.”
