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“Sure.” She walked toward him. The tee shirt was like the world’s shortest mini skirt. It barely covered anything. God, she was beautiful.
She sat on a stool at the counter. “What’s on your agenda today?”
“Not much,” he said.
“I was thinking of going for a run out at the county park. Do you run?”
“Yeah.” Tell her you want to go with her, he thought, but nothing came out.
“I love running. It’s such a release, and I haven’t found anything that tones my whole body better. I might train for the Miami Marathon. Have you run any races?” She smiled at him, and the welcoming curiosity on her face both tugged at him and repelled him.
“Hard to train for that kind of stuff, being on a boat all the time.”
Silence fell. Shit, this is what happens when you start shutting down. Don’t fuck this up. His phone rang again. He silenced it.
“Are you going to answer it?” she asked.
“No. Not important.”
She bit her lip. “Do you want me to leave?”
“No!” Blaine said. “No!” Part of him screamed, yes! He squashed that mental voice like a shoe flattening a bug. “I’m sorry…I’m just—”
She stood. His tan bare feet blended in with his wood floors. “I’m trying to get to know you. But you answer me in monosyllables. It’s like you can’t speak unless we’re talking about me.”
“I’m sorry.” She was right, and he didn’t have any defense. He glanced at the lit up screen on his phone.
“Why don’t you answer it?” she asked.
“Because it’s not important.”
She covered her eyes with one hand. “Do you have an extra toothbrush?” she asked.
“Uh—yes. Of course.” He led her to the bathroom, fished around in the drawers, and came up with a new toothbrush in a shiny wrapper. “Top of the line,” he said.
The corners of her mouth twitched in a smile. She gently pushed him out of the bathroom and shut the door. He returned to the kitchen and sat at the table. She’d left her phone on the table. It lit up, drawing his eye like a raven to a shiny coin. Jeff. Three texts and a missed call.
Jeff. That was the boyfriend. The moron who’d dumped her via text. Unless it took multiple texts to dump someone, it appeared he was back on the scene.
*
Mia brushed her teeth with a vengeance. She’d been on cloud nine in those first moments of consciousness, with Blaine’s arms around her. Now she wondered if she should grab her stuff and high tail it out of his presence once again.
She rinsed out her mouth and gripped the sides of the sink. No doubt about it, Blaine was evasive. Last night she’d thought he was trying to appear interested in her by asking so many questions and deflecting talk about himself, but she couldn’t deny it anymore after his chilly morning reception. She reviewed what she knew about him: he’s from somewhere in England, he’s thirty-six, and he charters fishing boats. Oh, and he lived in someone else’s multimillion dollar condo.
Scenarios started swirling through her brain. He was married. He was a drug dealer. He was in the witness protection program. He was a transgendered man, and his birth name was Jennifer.
Okay, get a grip, she told herself. I doubt any surgeon could create a penis implant like that one.
The thought sent her gig
gling into her hand. Control, Mia! Hysterics aren’t going to help.
She counted the times she’d seen him ignore his phone and came up with at least three. The more she thought about it, the more the “married” scenario made sense. Her heart sunk into her stomach.
Mia glared at herself in the mirror. Okay, Mia. He’s probably got a wife and kids at home. So what if he makes you laugh, and is smart and conscientious and a great cook and the best lover of your life. You’re going to walk out here. Get your stuff and go.
She opened the door. Blaine was watching it, as if he was waiting on a game show host to announce what was behind door number one.
