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Violet jumped when his arm went around her waist, and he squeezed her hip.
“Want some coffee?”
Coffee. Coffee was a good choice. It would make her more alert and less apt to say or do something stupid. Like get to know him.
And realize you might like him?
Yes, because that was the last thing she needed.
“Sure. Coffee would be great.”
DEAN LED HER down the hallway with his hand still on her hip, enjoying the soft swell beneath his palm. He noticed that she had tried to tame her wild hair and the black smudges under her eyes were gone, and it made him smile. His sisters had once told him that if a woman primped around a man, it meant she was interested.
Wait, isn’t interested a bad thing? What happened to not getting involved?
Dean’s smile slipped. Since he’d been in Sacramento, he’d hooked up with a few women, but he’d never been concerned that it might get complicated. Mostly because, although there was always an initial attraction, they never did a lot of talking. Those occasions were under more obvious circumstances, too—like at a bar after several rounds.
But with Violet, they’d actually talked a little and flirted a lot. Despite his best intentions, he had a hard time putting her in the same box as other women. He hadn’t asked her to come home with him just because she had been interested and available.
It was because of her. The undeniable chemistry between them that drew him closer and yet set off alarm bells. Sure, the sex might be fantastic, but what happened when they were done?
Stop worrying about what if, man, and concentrate on what’s happening now. Day by day, that’s all you can do.
But he liked the way she fit against him, his hand resting on the curve of her hip. He could tell she was nervous, too, but whether it was because she was second-guessing her decision to come home with him or because she was waiting for him to make his move, he couldn’t tell.
“How do you take your coffee?” he asked.
“Creamer if you have it, milk and sugar if you don’t.”
“You got it.” He released her reluctantly and headed toward the kitchen. “Have a seat on the couch while I make it.”
“Your dog appears to be guarding the couch.”
Dean glanced over to where Dilbert lay on the floor in front of the couch, his tail whacking the ground lazily as he met Dean’s gaze. “He’s not guarding, he’s resting.”
Violet shot him a doubting look, and he sighed. “Come on, Dil.”
The dog grunted at him, his tail thumping harder.
“Come on, dude, I’ll get you a bone.”
Dilbert’s ears twitched at the mention of a bone, but he still didn’t budge.
Dean gave Violet an exasperated look. “Do you see? He’s a sloth. Not even food will motivate him. Does that really look like a dog about to rip your throat out?”
Violet sat at the counter, her jaw clenched. “You don’t need to make fun of me. Have you ever been attacked by a dog?”
“Yeah, I’ve been chased by a few of them,” he said.
Violet lifted her leg onto the kitchen counter and turned it. He stepped closer to see the round, pale scars she was pointing at. “This is from a dog attack, so pardon me if I’m a little cautious.”
Dean slid his hand over the smooth, soft skin of her leg, his rough thumb scraping along the way. As his gaze met hers, he tried to put himself in her shoes.
“How old were you?”
“Ten.”
At ten years old, he’d been afraid of their basement, but it wasn’t the same thing. The fear of being chased, of running for your life and thinking that these might be your last moments was something he could relate to as a grown man, but as a child . . .
