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Holy crap, her voice sounded breathy.
He smiled, and goose bumps flared on her arms. “Hey.” His eyes flicked down her form, and for an instant, she wished she’d worn something completely different. More clothes. Less. Hair down, maybe. Something.
Then his eyes returned to hers, a spark of appreciation there. “Can I come in?”
“Yeah. Sure. I mean—sorry.” She stepped back and held the door wide. “Come in.”
Hunter stepped into her foyer, and Becca watched him look around for a minute, taking in the couch and TV in the living room, the photographs cataloguing her childhood that plastered the wall by the staircase, the stretch of hardwood leading back to the kitchen. Her mom kept the house neat as a pin, so at least Becca didn’t have to worry about anything embarrassing lying around.
Then he said, “So what’s with the pentagram?”
Yeah, nothing embarrassing—except maybe that. “Ah—long story,” she said, almost stammering. “Stupid kids—er, vandals.”
He winced. “That sucks.”
She stood there beside him and told herself not to fidget. She knew she should invite him past the front foyer, but where? The kitchen? The living room? She couldn’t figure out which room gave the wrong idea—or the right one.
It hadn’t even occurred to her until now: She’d never had a boy over—not even Drew.
Hunter was looking at her again. “Smells nice,” he offered.
“Cinnamon.” Like he couldn’t figure that out. “I lit a candle.”
He smiled and glanced past her. “Your mom’s in bed already?”
“Oh. No.” That brought her up short. “Mom works nights.”
His eyebrows went up, just enough. “So ... there’s no one else here?”
He seemed closer suddenly, warming the space between them. She shook her head and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Just us.”
“Interesting.” The word lingered in the air.
Then she realized what this looked like. She snapped her head up, folding her arms in front of her stomach. Now she wished for a sweater. “I didn’t mean—it’s not like that.”
His expression didn’t flicker. “Like what?”
Her cheeks felt hot. “This is not a booty call.”
He smiled and put his hands on her elbows, leaning in to speak along her jawline. His fingers were warm on her skin, and his breath brushed her neck. “Relax.”
She inhaled, wondering if cinnamon was an aphrodisiac. Part of her wanted to pull away—and a bigger part wanted to lean into him.
But he let her go and stepped into the hallway, leaving her swaying in the foyer. “Mind if I have something to drink?”
Becca hustled to beat him to the cabinet. She grabbed two glasses and poured lemonade, then watched him take a sip. The flame in the jar candle on the counter fluttered and jumped, keeping time with her heart.
She had to stop staring at him.
“Want to ... ah ... watch a movie or something?” she asked, then wanted to kick herself. What, was she six years old?
But he lowered the glass from his lips. “Sure, Becca.”
She folded herself into the corner of the couch and prayed for something decent on cable. Apparently, Comcast wasn’t on her side. She settled on some adventure flick she didn’t recognize and glued her eyes to the screen.
Hunter dropped into the dead center of the sofa. He watched the movie for five seconds, then glanced at her. “Are you actually watching this?”
“I’m actually looking in that direction.” She tossed the remote at him. “Watching might be a little strong.”
