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“I don’t know.” I look away.
Rush tips my chin up until I’m looking at him. “What if I stayed here with you?”
I have no place for a man Rush’s size to sleep. The lone spare bedroom I turned into an office for homework, and my couch is more like a love seat. But he’s searched the place, so he knows that. Just like he knows I’ve got a roomy queen-size bed…
But he’s not interested in sharing it with me.
“Maybe I could make you dinner to thank you for your help, and afterward we can see if it makes sense, okay?”
“Sure. Whatever you want.”
How about you hold me down, kiss me breathless, and take my V-card?
Instead, I smile. “I appreciate it. It’s nearly eight o’clock. What sounds good for dinner?”
“Whatever you feel like making. I can’t remember the last time someone cooked for me.”
Seriously? He doesn’t have dates every night of the week?
He probably does. They’re just too busy to eat. Duh.
“You look like one of those super-healthy types who only eats tofu and vegetables. I was going to make fried chicken and mashed potatoes with biscuits—”
“If you do, I’ll love you forever.”
I laugh. Big, bad Rush has a sense of humor? “Southern cooking it is. Beer?”
He raises a brow at me. “You drink it?”
“No. I keep a few bottles in case my neighbor comes over on weekends to watch some sporting event only my satellite provider gets.”
Rush saunters into the kitchen. “Lucky guy.”
“No, Mrs. Crafton is an eighty-year-old widow whose passions in life include college football, the Westminster Dog Show, Say Yes to the Dress, and beer.”
He laughs, a rich, wonderful sound dripping with baritone and testosterone. “She sounds like a character.”
Now, just like the first time I laid eyes on him, he makes my everything flutter. I turn to the refrigerator and pull out the package of chicken. I won’t have leftovers, but I’ll have Rush at my table. That’s way better.
Cool your jets. Otherwise, he’ll figure out he makes you gaga and you’ll look like an idiot.
Good advice. I should listen…except when I turn to him, I’m struck by how gorgeous he is and find myself staring.
“Need help?” He’s obviously suppressing a smile. Clearly, I don’t have to give away my feelings before making an idiot out of myself. I’m already doing it.
“I’ve got it. Thanks.”
“How about I pour some wine?” He eyes the bottles of merlot in the rack beside my kitchen cabinet.
“You drink it?”
“I’ll drink about anything.”
Normally I don’t imbibe around a guy I don’t know well. I’m a super lightweight. But it’s been a hell of a day, and being around Rush makes me more nervous than usual. “Then wine would be great.”
He uncorks the bottle while I clean the chicken and heat the frying pan. I’m breading the pieces when he bends and holds the glass to my lips. “Since your hands are occupied…”
I wrap my lips around the rim of the glass and close my eyes as the wine spills onto my tongue, tart and fruity. It’s so intimate to be drinking from his hand, but he’s steady and patient, making sure I get a nice long swallow before taking my cue and setting the stem aside.
“Thanks.” I lick my lips and notice his stare following the motion. Nerves kick my stomach. My tongue suddenly feels tied, but I try not to seem googly-eyed. “So…when you first got here, you said you wanted to talk about something?”
He shrugs. “It’s not important now. It’ll wait. Tell me about you?”
Um…I went to prom with your younger brother, Ridge.
Yeah, probably not the best place to start.
“Well, I’m an only child. My mom died when I was two, so I don’t really remember her. My dad mostly raised me, with a lot of help from his sister, who now lives in Ohio.” I’m skipping the whole high-school experience since reminders might bring back that night I can’t forget. “I started working at the hotel about two years ago. I’m going to night school and I read a lot. Boring, huh?”
“Not at all. Sorry about your mom.”
“Thanks.” Mentions of her always make me a little melancholy. “Dad has always said I’m a lot like her.”
“You like your job?”
“Sure. You?”
“It’s definitely different than leading covert missions in enemy territory and hauling ass to tight extractions after completing the objective.”
“Iraq?”
“And Afghanistan. Both hellholes.”
And he doesn’t want to talk about it. I get that. “But you like the job?”
He bobs his head, his dark eyes dancing under the kitchen lights. “Still getting used to it.”
“Adrenaline junkie?” I’m guessing yes, just like I’m guessing he misses the action.
“Guilty. I’m settling for skydiving and motorcycle racing instead.”
Settling? “That sounds terrifying.”
“Nah,” he assures as I set the breaded chicken in the hot pan. Silence, broken only by the popping grease, sizzles. “So what do you read?”
