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How could he not want the sweetness she was offering? But how could he open himself up to wanting it?
She licked her lips and met his gaze head on, letting him see her sincerity in a way he found so damn brave. “We never got to have that sandwich the other night. And I made a whole pan of lasagna. Stay.”
* * * *
He wasn’t going to stay. Emma could see it in those pale eyes, in the way his lean body was already angled toward her foyer, in how rigidly he held himself.
The longer he went without answering, the more an awkward tension filled the space between them. Until Emma was nearly dying of embarrassment and wishing the floor would swallow her up. She’d been so excited that he’d come back that she’d made all kinds of assumptions that apparently weren’t true. And as she thought back over the minutes since he’d arrived, she realized he’d only come in because she’d needed to get the lasagna out of the oven before the top got too brown.
And then she’d put him on the spot. A spot he clearly didn’t know how to get out of.
She shook her head. “Never mind. It’s okay—”
“No,” he said, his brow cranking down over that rugged face. “I’ll…I’ll stay.”
Emma studied the white box in her hands, her belly doing a weird twisty thing. She didn’t want him to stay because he felt cornered into it, so she gave him the out. “You don’t have to, Caine. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. But thank you for delivering the cookies.”
“Fuck,” he bit out under his breath.
Her gaze snapped to meet his, which roiled with emotion she couldn’t name and didn’t understand. The connection made her pulse race and her skin heat. Or maybe that was because the man was so freaking sexy. His intensity. His harsh face paired with those strange eyes and full lips. His raw masculinity with all its hard angles and rough edges.
“It’s just… I’m not very…” He shook his head, and Emma could’ve groaned for want of knowing what he was trying to say. “I want to stay. If it’s still okay.”
A tendril of hopefulness curled into her chest. “Of course it’s okay. I wouldn’t have invited you if I didn’t want you. To stay, I mean. For dinner.” Oh my God, stop talking, Em!
He nodded, a hint of what she thought might be humor playing around his mouth. “Dinner sounds good.” He pushed the black knit cap off his head, and then smoothed his hand over the sexy mess the hat had made of his short hair.
“Good. Great.” She smiled and took a deep breath. Clearly a week of fantasizing about this man had fried her brain, if the spectacular stream of gibberish falling out of her mouth was any indication. “Then let’s eat.”
Emma led him into the kitchen and wondered why she was so much more nervous around him tonight. Part of it was because the dynamic between them had changed. That first night, he’d been her protector and given her a sense of safety. Now, he’d become her secret tormentor and made her feel entirely vulnerable. It made no matter that he hadn’t intended those things. It didn’t make them any less true.
He’d saved her. He’d intrigued her. He’d left her wanting more.
“Smells fucking amazing,” he said as they stepped into her kitchen. The compliment relaxed her and made her grin, but before she could respond, he blurted, “Shit, sorry for the language. Force of habit.”
She smirked. “I’m a teacher, Caine. Not a nun. My ears aren’t sensitive.” She gathered plates, silverware, and napkins. It was maybe silly how much pleasure she got out of preparing to set a table for two, but since her grandmother had died, she hadn’t entertained here much. Instead, friends tended to invite her to hang out with them. Just like Alison had for Christmas dinner. “Someone willing to risk themselves to protect another person, rather than just being a bystander, can say whatever they want as far as I’m concerned.”
“You’re a kindergarten teacher,” he said, his eyes tracking her every movement.
Hands full, she moved toward the table and then laid out the place settings. “And?” she said with a little laugh. “What does that mean?”
His gaze narrowed. “Kindergarten teachers are like…paragons of innocence and sweetness.”
Emma waited for the punch line, humor bubbling up inside her. And then she started chuckling. “Oh, man, would my friend Catalin get a kick out of that.” She shook her head, laughter still bubbling up inside her. “When she gets worked up over something, she swears like a sailor. That’s just a reputation because our job entails being cheerful and patient, and having a willingness to not take yourself too seriously, and playing with glitter and fuzzy pom-poms alongside teaching letters and numbers and social skills. Grab us some orange soda?”
