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But what exactly is she determined to do?
As I watch her bend to get her towel, I’m not sure I want to find out, although my penis seems to disagree. He’s interested in every little thing Nora Greene does.
He doesn’t know what he’s getting us into.
To be honest, I don’t know either.
Chapter Five
Nora
As I change out of my bathing suit and into a sundress, I ponder the look on Brand’s face.
Hesitant.
Reluctant.
But why? I saw him watch me. I know that at least part of him wants me.
Butterflies flutter in my belly at that thought. Brand Killien wants me.
But he doesn’t want to want me.
That’s just as obvious and it quiets the butterflies back down. I stare glumly in the mirror as I comb my wet hair. There must be a reason, and it more than likely has to do with a woman. Brand is loyal as the day is long, I can tell. So there must be a girlfriend.
With a sigh, I put down my comb and head out to the kitchen.
Good Lord, the heat. The hot oven has turned the kitchen into a freaking inferno. Lesson one. Don’t use the oven on a hot day.
It’s even hotter as I open the oven and pull out the meat. Which, incidentally, is charred.
What the hell?
I poke at it and find that the top and bottom are covered in a blackened crust. Only the middle is edible and I have no idea why. I did everything the recipe said to do. Crap. Excerpt set the oven timer. I baked it thirty minutes longer than I was supposed to.
I’m blowing the hair out of my face when Brand calls in to me.
“How’s it coming?”
I don’t want to admit defeat. But I’m sure the man is hungry.
I slink out with my tail between my legs.
“I’ve got many talents,” I announce. “Unfortunately, it seems that cooking isn’t one of them. Yet.”
Brand bursts out laughing, setting his book on his lap. I flush as I remember his lap shoved against me earlier. And how happy his lap had been to see mine.
“Take-out?” he suggests.
I nod. “Takeout. Any ideas?”
“Actually, yes,” he tells me. “I was actually here last year for dinner. Some friends of mine owned the little Italian place and I came here one evening. They sold it, but I believe it still serves the same menu. Italian sounds good to me.”
“It does to me too,” I tell him as I grab my purse. “Especially since I won’t have to cook it.”
Brand tosses me his wallet. “It’s on me.”
I don’t argue, because I know there would be no point. I can already tell that he’s stubborn.
