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He needed a session on the treadmill, the relentless pounding of one foot after the other enough – he hoped – to drive her from his head once and for all.
Oh, sweet Jesus. Tell me that didn’t actually happen. Isabella’s fingers lifted to her lips, brushing the flesh there as though they would confirm or deny her memories – were they of an actual event, or the strings of a dream? Her eyes flew wide open and she stared at the ceiling above her bed, her skin draining of all warmth and colour.
She’d kissed him.
Worse, she’d pushed at him until he had no choice but to kiss her back. She’d been absolutely, unforgivably rude.
Reaching under her head, she pulled a pillow out and held it over her face, screaming into the feathery softness, the noise muffled by the bedding.
He’d said she would beg for him and he was right. Oh, she hadn’t in so many words, but her body had shown that he was her master; she’d ached for him, surrendered to him in every way. And he’d pushed her away without a backwards glance.
Get the hell out of here.
She’d had plenty of embarrassing things happen in her life – who hadn’t? – but this somehow took the cake. She wasn’t just embarrassed, she was mortified, wishing she could crawl up into a ball and avoid seeing him. And maybe she could, she thought with a sudden sense of relief. He’d been adamant he wanted to be left alone. Why didn’t she do exactly that? She could hide out in her room, disappearing into the kitchen to grab food just once, enough to see her through the day and night. She could even hide out the whole darned blizzard in here, wait until it was safe to leave and by then the whole disastrous thing would just be a distant memory.
It was an almost perfect plan. She showered and washed her underwear, hanging them over the edge of the shower rail, then pulled on her jeans and sweater without – it was obvious she wasn’t wearing a bra and the thought might have kept her hiding out in the room until her undies were dry again, but she was starving, and determined to avoid him.
Tiptoeing down the stairs, she paused at the bottom, looking in every direction to make sure he wasn’t near
by. Then, stealthily, she crept forward, pausing at each door, listening for the slightest sound before scurrying past. She knew she must look ridiculous, but so what?
Better to avoid him altogether than be mortified in an unexpected confrontation. It was the kitchen she knew she had to be careful with. She listened at the doors for a long time – and there was silence. Good. Perfect. When she was sure that silence meant he wasn’t in the room, she pushed the doors inwards and stepped inside, looking around quickly and releasing a huge, pent-up breath at the sight of an obviously empty kitchen.
It was such a beautiful space, she felt true remorse to have to avoid it for the day – and the foreseeable future! – but she wouldn’t risk another confrontation. Not after the way she’d behaved. Her lips tingled and she lifted her fingers as a gasp escaped, memories slamming into her of the way he’d felt, the way his mouth had pressed to hers, demanding, taking, insisting.
Her knees went shaky and she spun towards the window, bracing her palms on the kitchen bench in an attempt to support her suddenly tremulous body.
It was then that she heard the whooshing of the doors. Oh, crap. She squeezed her eyes shut, sucking in a deep breath in an attempt to fortify herself before turning around.
“Coffee?”
The question was the last thing she’d expected. It was so normal. So completely, utterly pedestrian that for a second she wondered if perhaps she had imagined the kiss after all? Maybe it had all been a dream?
But, no. When she spun around and looked at Gabe, she saw him as he’d been then, she felt every inch of him against her; it was all the confirmation she needed.
It didn’t help that his shirt was off, revealing his inked chest and biceps, leaving very little to the imagination. Tattoos covered his biceps and shoulders, all the way down to his rock-hard abs. There were pictures as well as words, intricate drawings that she ached to understand; tattoos that would, she was sure, tell a story. Her pulse went haywire and she struggled to swallow with a suddenly desert dry throat.
“I just came in to grab some food.”
A single dark brow lifted. “Is that a ‘no’?”
Her eyes darted to the machine and despite the embarrassment still engulfing her, she lifted her shoulders. “I have a rule never to say ‘no’ to coffee. Especially not in the morning.”
His response was a quick flick of his lips, something very close to a smile. Her pulse throbbed and she took a step away from him, nearer to the machine. “I’ll make it.”
“It’s my turn,” he demurred, striding to the fridge and removing a bottle of milk, then flicking the switch on the grinder. The smell of coffee filled the air and she sucked in a breath.
Isabella backed up a little, propping her hip against the edge of the counter, watching as he filled the coffee basket, his movements confident and lithe, the simple act of making coffee one he evidently did often, and yet watching it, Isabella felt as though it were one of the most beautiful things in the world. Without a shirt, there was a hyper-masculinity to the act. She wanted to film him – such beauty should be trapped in some way, kept for posterity, not allowed to pass unnoticed and unappreciated.
“Coffee with milk,” he said, as he finished up, lifting the mug and holding it towards her, without standing, so that she had to push away from the bench and cross the distance towards him. Almost toe to toe, the memories of last night were impossible to ignore. She lifted a hand, gingerly reaching for the cup to avoid touching him, but he didn’t relinquish his grip. With the cup held between them, each with a hand on its ceramic bowl, their eyes met, and a silent challenge passed from him to her.
She didn’t understand. She couldn’t answer it, couldn’t hide from it. She bit down on her lip, uncertainty washing over her.
“I watched some of your videos last night.”
It was the very last thing she expected him to say. Her eyes widened, her features showing surprise.
“Oh.”
