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Her mouth moved until she was biting down on her bottom lip, clearly trying to keep whatever she was dying to say from leaping out of her mouth.
“Come on,” he whispered, the hair at her nape ruffling with his breath. “Admit it.”
Her chin trembled. He wanted to stroke his finger along her lower lip.
Suddenly, she laughed, shoving at him wi
th her elbow in his stomach. “Yes, I’m totally regretting it—I can’t even open a can of soup without you getting in the way.”
He liked her feistiness. He liked her laughter too. Mom and Dad would love her. Daniel had no doubt they’d get the dirt on her secrets in no time.
But what about his parents—did they have secrets? And if so, did he really want to know them? Was it even his business?
Tasha held out a can and the opener. “If you’re going to stay, make yourself useful.”
“I was useful,” he reminded her, not above using a little puppy love to his advantage. “I helped get those three furballs to safety.”
She stopped, her two hands against his chest, one with the opener, the other holding the can. “Jumping out of bed to run up the hill and dig them out. Getting the food. Canvassing the neighbors. Feeding them.” Her words were slightly rough with emotion. “You’ve gone above and beyond.”
He couldn’t help but pull her close, couldn’t stop himself from wrapping his arms around her, holding her tight. “So have you,” he whispered into her hair as he gently stroked her back.
She stayed there for five seconds, a heaven’s length of time in which he absorbed every curve, every texture, every scent.
Especially since he knew it wouldn’t last. Not yet. Not until she trusted him with whatever it was that kept sending those shadows into her eyes.
But just as he’d thought about his parents’ secrets, did he really want to know Tasha’s? Or would it be safer to keep his distance and wait for perfect and uncomplicated to come along?
Deep within himself, Daniel knew better. Knew that what he felt for Tasha, even after only a couple of days, was special.
Even if it wasn’t quite perfect.
Just as he’d known she would, Tasha sprang away from him. As she clutched the soup can and opener to her chest, her eyes were wide, her gaze full of something that looked a heck of a lot like self-recrimination. Just because she’d let him hug her.
He wanted to say something that would soothe her—and make up for the huge gaffe of pulling her too close, too soon—but he had a feeling anything he said would only make things worse.
“You know what? I probably should head back to my place.” The last thing he wanted was to leave. But he needed to give her time to miss him the way he’d miss her. Time to think about him the way he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Time to long for him the way he’d been longing for her since the moment he’d pulled her off the roof and into his arms.
When disappointment flashed in her eyes, it took every ounce of his control not to smile. Especially when she bit her lip and said, “Are you sure? I suppose I could add a little milk to make this go further.”
She obviously wanted him to stay, but at the same time, getting too close to him seemed to terrify her.
Why? Who had hurt her? Who had taught her to be afraid to trust?
Just the thought of anyone hurting Tasha made Daniel’s hands fist. He’d never felt this protective of anyone other than his family and the other Mavericks. Certainly not about a woman. Still, she wouldn’t miss him, wouldn’t long for him, if he stuck around too long today.
“Remember, I’m just down the hill if you need any help with the dogs.”
He pressed a kiss to her forehead—a kiss that sent shockwaves through him—and was gone before she could pretend the gentle kiss hadn’t sent aftershocks through her too.
Chapter Eight
A storm hit viciously that night, a day earlier than the weatherman predicted. As it raged against the windows, Tasha was afraid the panes would break. The wind ripped the plastic tarp off her roof, the crackle of it flying into the night.
Yet, for all its power, the storm had nothing on the one raging inside her in the aftermath of Daniel’s sweet kiss.
The feel of his arms around her in the makeshift kitchen had been powerful enough to make her want to stay there forever, as though she’d finally found a real home after jumping from place to place for so long. Her head on his chest, the spicy man smell of him, the texture of his shirt beneath her fingers, the steady thump-thump of his heart in her ear. She’d felt so safe. So warm. Like one of the puppies beneath his gentle hands as he stroked her back.
She’d wanted him to stay for more than soup—so much more—and it had freaked her out. Thankfully, he’d changed his mind about staying for lunch.
