She’d asked too, but they’d thought she was nuts.
“Most of the women I’ve been with wanted to go out to dinner or thought I’d have a chef.”
She turned and wrinkled her nose. She didn’t want to think about other women he’d been with or the fact that they were looking for those extras.
“Give me a home-cooked meal any day of the week. I enjoy going out like the next person, but this is more?—”
She stopped talking before the wordintimateescaped.
He’s my boss. He’s my boss. Don’t be an idiot and make this any harder than it is.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just trailed off is all.”
He didn’t look as if he believed her. Or if he did, he was keeping his opinion to himself.
He continued to move around the kitchen, getting more pots and pans, then pasta and using the pot filler.
She actually got out of his way since she felt as if she was more a nuisance than help.
“What do you like to do to unwind?” he asked.
“My life isn’t as stressful as yours.”
“You don’t know that. Or I don’t know that. Our jobs aren’t the only things that can stress a person out.”
“True. Some might say I’ve had a nice vacation not working for almost a month.”
“And it probably stressed you out.”
“Fair point. I guess for me, I exercise, read. Have a glass of wine now and again.”
“Like we can have tonight. If not, it’s fine.”
She saw the wine fridge under his island. Looked to be stocked too.
“I thought you’d be a beer man. Though you were drinking the espresso martini with me.”
He smiled, the memory of the night was something they couldn’t avoid forever and she wasn’t sure why she was trying.
“I drink just about anything when the mood strikes. There is beer in there too if you want some.”
“Wine will be good when we sit for dinner.”
Her eyes drifted over him unhurriedly.
His dark, messy hair his fingers had raked through after he’d taken off his hat, leaving it perfectly imperfect.
The rough shadow of a beard that hadn’t been there earlier in the week added an edge that made him look even more dangerous to her hormones.
Her gaze followed the line of his chest, broad beneath the soft cotton of his T-shirt, then lower to his hands.
Strong, capable hands that were casually scraping vegetables onto one cutting board, then sliding the other into the dishwasher.
Effortless. Controlled.
Every move he made felt deliberate, even when it wasn’t.
