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If she had a wooden spoon she’d rap herself over the knuckles just like Gran used to when she tried to poke her finger into the cake mix. But despite that she longed to reach out and wheedle a finger between the buttons of his shirt to the velvety skin. Tweak one dark nipple.
She gulped.
They were here to talk work. Not to indulge her sexual fantasies.
“Hi,” she said, trying to sound casual.
“Hi.” His eyes lingered, as if he too wanted to stick a finger in the cake mix, so to speak.
“Glad you could make it.”
“I had some stuff to sort out but decided I could spare time for a quick bite. For the sake of our co-therapy role.”
His lips twitched. “Thanks.”
When she smiled up at him, she realised she was blushing, which was clearly ridiculous.
“So, what were you doing?” he asked as he sat down and she hid behind the menu, too busy focusing on controlling her body’s temperature gauge to answer.
Solo supplied, “You said you were sorting stuff out?”
“Oh, um—” Polly floundered, unable to think up a fib. “I was helping plan my dad’s seventieth.”
It would hardly count as comprehensive planning. A short, terse email to Mim. And the fact that her thoughts kept bouncing back to the guy who was now sitting in the flesh in front of her, that was neither here nor there, was it?
The urge to touch him almost overwhelmed her again as Solo tilted his head; the striated muscles in his neck fluid as he ordered their drinks. She could almost imagine the warm, sweet scent of him on her nostrils.
His gaze returned to her face and she must still have that hungry look, because his eyes narrowed and a muscle ticked in his jaw.
Polly’s breath snagged in her throat. She thrust back in her chair and folded her arms. His eyes dipped to her chest. Of course they did, her breasts were her prize asset and folding her arms accentuated them. A whoosh of heat shot to her sex as he quickly averted his gaze.
She had to admit, it thrilled her, knowing she was turning him on. Even if she wasn’t going to let it go any further.
“So what’s happening for his birthday?” Solo asked.
“His long-term partner had the crack-brained idea we should throw him a party.”
Solo frowned. “Why’s that crack-brained?”
“Dad’s an alcoholic. If you asked him, he’d say he’s a recovered alcoholic, but frankly, they never are. He just likes to pretend falling off the wagon never happens. Denial is his default mode.”
She tried to keep the bitterness at bay but it was hard, and she could feel Solo’s eyes boring into her as he asked, “Is that why you used to play peacekeeper?”
She picked at the edge of the paper menu. “You remember me saying that?”
He nodded
“Yeah. I didn’t do a good enough job of it, clearly.”
“Maybe it wasn’t your job to do.”
She glanced up to see his eyes glowing soft, caressing her. Taking a breath suddenly hurt. “Maybe.”
“So where’s your mum now?”
“She left when I was fourteen, went off in a campervan around Australia, met a nice guy on the way and shacked up with him in Far North Queensland.”
“That must have been hard.”
