“Jesus! You gave me a fright, I thought someone was breaking into my house,” I said, lowering my knife.
And then he finally blinked and a new look washed over his face. His jaw closed, his eyes narrowed and his forehead creased. “You thought someone was breaking in?” He sounded angry.
I was taken aback. “Yes.”
“You thought someone was breaking in, and instead of doing something sensible like . . . oh, I don’t know, CALL THE POLICE,” his voice was loud and firm, “you opened the door and decided to attack the burglar?” He dropped the drill into the toolbox and took a large step forward.
“Uh . . .? I guess.” I stepped back, and he came marching in.
He closed the door behind him and glared at me. “You decided to attack the burglar with a butter knife?” He pointed to my hand. “A butter knife???”
I looked at the knife. “Oops, must have grabbed the wrong knife.”
“What?” He spat the word out with absolute anger. “You grabbed the wrong knife? Are you kidding me! Are you looking to get injured? Are you looking to get attacked by one of your many, clearly unstable neighbors?”
“Huh?” I was floored. I had no idea what was going on.
“Has no one ever told younotto run towards danger?” I backed away from him and he took another stride towards me, throwing his arms in the air as if he was exasperated. “It’s one thing living in a place like this. It’s another thing living in a place like this without adequate locks on your door, but it’s another thing entirely to live in a place like this and RUN TOWARDS DANGER WITH A BUTTER KNIFE IN YOUR HAND!” He was fuming, but I’d moved so far away from him that my back was pressed into the wall. I had nowhere to go.
“I . . . I . . .” I had no idea what to say to this.
Now he also disapproved of the way I handled myself in emergency situations! This had absolutely nothing to do with him, whatsoever. He came to a stop in front of me and stared straight into my eyes. His gaze was intense and, once more, I could feel myself crumbling underneath it. Then he reached out, took something between his fingers and looked at it. My stomach fell.
“Your hair?” He was looking at a strand of myrealhair.
Shit!I’d opened the door without my stupid wig on.
“Have you been wearing a wig?” he asked.
“Uh . . .” My brain raced and raced and the only thing I could come up with was, “It’s my sheitel.” Oh God, I wanted to kick myself for saying that.
“Your what?”
“My sheitel. I’m Jewish, you see.”
“Doris Granger-Peterson is Jewish?” He took a step closer to me and tangled the strand of hair around his finger.
“Grangerman-Petersonnerwitz,” I whispered stupidly. I stared at his hand as he wrapped and unwrapped my long hair around his finger. “My grandmother was . . . um, I was . . . and we . . . uh . . .” I stopped dead.What the hell was I trying to say? And why couldn’t I just shut the hell up?
“Your grandmother was—what?” He leaned in and whispered. It was low and husky and sexy as hell, and suddenly I felt myself being transported once more. Transported to that strange place where I seemed to (unintentionally) go with Ryan. Despite my best intentionsnotto go there.
“Uh, from . . . Germany and uh, after the war she married a . . . um . . .” I stumbled over my nonsensical words while staring at his lips. God, he had nice lips. And his lips got even nicer when a tiny, slow, seductive smile parted them ever so slightly.
“Married your Spanish uncle from Paraguay?” he asked.
Shit!He moved closer to me and I realized that I’d painted myself into such a damn corner with him. But I stubbornly tried to un-paint myself, once more.
“Yes. He was in exile, you see, so, you know . . . and did I mention the war?”
Suddenly, he dropped my hair and in a move that caught me totally off guard, a move that felt so intimate and strange and . . . nice . . . he placed his finger over my lips to keep me quiet.
“I can see I’m going to have to forcefully stop you from lying,” he said.
CHAPTERFORTY-SEVEN
Ryan
“Lying?” she asked innocently, her eyes locked onto his as if she couldn’t look away.
