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Ding dong.
She pulled her robe tight again, leaving the wooden spoon inside the pot as she rushed to the door. Was there such a thing as evening deliveries? Or maybe...
But there was no point.
She knew. Knew before opening the door who was going to be standing there, staring down at her fluffy pink bathrobe with the most annoying blend of amusement and confusion.
"Big plans tonight, huh?" Brooks smiled at her, his bulky frame taking up nearly the entire passageway.
If she’d been a smart woman, she would have closed the door and end things right there and then. In the morning, she'd march into his office and declare her surrender.
That's
definitely what a smart woman would have done.
What she did, though, was stammer.
She stammered so much that she couldn't have picked out a single actual word. Like a baby who was learning to talk. Or like the big dumb stupid idiot that she, yet again, had become.
"Now, I know I look good, but I didn't think I could ever make you lost for words." He walked--no, strutted--into the hallway and she stayed there, the door still in her hand, staring. He wasn't wrong. He looked good.
Beyond good. His dark washed jeans clung to his lean frame and instead of his business casual suit, he wore an old T-shirt that looked like it had gone through the dryer one too many times.
In vain, she struggled to read the words on the shirt, then realized how it must look with her standing there dumbly, squinting at his chest. Dammit, ten seconds in and she'd already colossally screwed up.
That was what he wanted, though. She had to fix it. Just as soon as she could untie her tongue.
Come on, speak.
"How do you know where I live?" She closed the door, hating every ounce of heat that rushed to her face.
"Personnel files."
Of course. What else.
"Why are you here?" She tried again, following him as he strolled into her living room, hands in his jeans pockets.
"I just thought I'd see what your big busy night is. Jeopardy, huh?" He nodded toward the TV. Alex Trebek was in the middle of pronouncing something in one of his affected accents, and she rushed to the remote, but he picked it up and held it in the palm of his hand.
That hand. Why was it that, since that night in the hotel, she hadn't been able to think about anything other than his hands? They were big and strong, sure. And rough. But also strangely smooth. And...
"Potpourri is my best category." He grinned, and she realized with another start that she'd fallen silent once more.
Come on, get it together. Say something. Anything.
"I was just getting ready to go," she said.
"I can tell. Unless, of course, you always rock that pink fluffy robe after work. I like it. It gives off a very devil-may-care vibe. Did it come with the first divorce or the second?"
"Very funny. And I don't wear this all the time. I was just, erm, getting ready to go to a friend's house when I was rudely interrupted by the uninvited guest at my door."
He ignored the subtext and shot straight for the gut. "Which friend?"
"Rachael." She'd said it before she had a chance to think.
If she'd bothered to do that, she might have even remembered that Brooks had more reason to know Rachael's whereabouts than most.
Before he'd responded, she knew that lie spelled out strike number two.
