Chapter 4
Dylan stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, dutifully reprimanding, “Simply hand over the muffins, dude, and send the woman on her way.”
The feat should have been easy, considering he wanted nothing to do with members of the opposite sex. It was too soon.
Too soon to trust. Too soon to care.
And way too soon to fall in love again.
He pulled on a pair of Levi’s, slipped into a white T-shirt, combed fingers through his towel-dried hair, then braced himself. The woman he left standing downstairs in the living room was far too easy on the eyes for himnotto be concerned that keeping his distance would prove to be a most difficult task. Especially since she’d be his neighbor for the next three months.
Yet in all seriousness; in this instance, all he needed to do was stick to the plan: just give her those damn muffins. Ignore the gorgeous set of blue eyes, the kissable Marilyn-Monroe-style beauty mark, pinned slightly northwest of her heart-shaped lips, and definitely eschew the body that was tempting him toabort mission—give up the whole, stay-away-from-members-of-the-opposite-sex gig he had going on.
Easy.
Right?
Wrong.
And Dylan realized just how wrong it was the second he was back downstairs. Observing Chloe as she walked about the living room, seemingly in awe over the series of black-and-white photos taking space on the walls, he nearly forgot anything having to do with apple pie muffins.
“These pictures. They look amazing.”
So do you, he thought. Even if she was only wearing yoga pants and a tank top. “Thanks. Um, let me get you those muffins.” Dylan began a beeline toward the kitchen.
“Did you purchase these from a local gallery? If so, where is it? I’d love to own a few of these myself.”
“Nope. And there is no photo gallery here in Fortune’s Bay.” If he stuck with short, concise responses, he’d avoid drawn-out, unnecessary conversation.
So he hoped.
“The photographer,” Chloe continued as she stared up at the photos, “he or she has such a great eye for detail. The way the—”
“He.” Dylan felt the need to correct. “The photographer is a he.”
“Oh? Do you know him?” She moved out of the living room and into the kitchen, eyes pinned to Dylan, who once again forgot all about the muffins. By now, Mr. Just Send Her On Her Way was too taken by Chloe’s charm and infectious smile. Something about the way she quirked her lips into a half-smirk had him wanting to see that smile every imaginable day of his life.
“Yeah, you can say I know him. Anyway,”—he raised his index finger, clearly making a miraculous rebound from that memory lapse—“the muffins.”
Pivoting, he opened the fridge and reached for the two-pack of muffins resting on the top shelf, when Chloe asked, “Is that Italian food I smell?”
It was growing more apparent her presence was affecting all things cognitive—Dylan forgot the pan of homemade lasagna he shoved in the oven right before his shower.
“Shit,” he growled, slamming the refrigerator door shut. As if his life depended on it, he skid over to the oven, grabbed a pot holder, and pulled the door open. “My lasagna. I forgot all about it.”
“Lasagna?” The high-octave tone in her voice made him snicker.
After retrieving the dish of cheesy stuff out of the oven, he found a place for it on the counter. “Yes, lasagna.”
Their eyes mingled for a long beat, a center island with a pan of steaming hot pasta between them, its mouthwatering scent no doubt making them both want to dig in.
Chloe’s gaze moved to the food. “Is it homemade? I haven’t had Italian food in ages. Well, unless you count the pizza rolls I sometimes snack on while I’m writing.”
With a quick swipe of her tongue she wet her lips.
She must be starving, right? All signs pointed to yes…
Practically breaking his door down for muffins.
