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Chapter 4
♥?♥?♥
Paula
TEN-MINUTE SHOWER WITH HERfavorite body wash, check. Dampened hair wrapped in a hasty bun that looked way more styled than it was, check. Rust-colored v-neck sweater and matching choker...designer jeans…high heels. Check, check, check, check.
Not that she was trying to impress Bastian Spencer. Far from it. She’d scorned the bra in the end, deciding it was too early in the morning to endure a shoulder-straining harness for her neighbor’s sake. And she wasn’t painting on lip gloss for the jackass, no way.
But he’d never seen her even halfway dressed up—somehow, she was always in disarray during their encounters—and something told her this was war.
An interlude in front of the mirror confirmed she looked workably presentable before she strode out of the bedroom, a saccharine smile pasted on her face.
Bastian was crouching before her bookcase. She could hardly call it creepy, considering she’d have done the same exact thing if the situation were reversed.
“You read epic fantasy?”
She gave a sarcastic wave. “As you see.”
“Me, too. I’ve read a few of these. I don’t have the print books, though, just the digital versions.”
“I like reading paper.”
“Really? I thought I saw you holding an ebook rea...” He drifted off as he fully caught sight of her. Straightening to his feet, he surveyed Paula slowly, with great deliberation. His broad chest rose and fell with his deep, audible breath, and then he strode toward the kitchen. “What do you have in the way of fruit?”
“Now you expect me to feed you?”
He glanced at her meaningfully over the bar. “It’s either breakfast or you, Paula Raymond.”
“Excuse me?” She’d been following him, but now she paused, believing she must have misheard him.
He didn’t answer, merely opened the refrigerator and started rummaging around. “Do you want one of these apples?”
She sputtered as he hauled out her much-treasured bag of mottled red apples. “Oh, now, go right ahead, make yourself at home in my fridge. Mi casa es tu casa. Just help yourself to anything you see.”
The courteous expression didn’t leave his face. “Well, do you, Ms. Paula Raymond?”
She snorted. “Fine, wash me one. Thank you so much for your generosity in offering me one of my own apples. Now what was it you were saying just a moment ago?”
He ignored her probe into that “breakfast or you” remark as he went around to the sink. After wiping the glossy orbs with a dish towel, he came back and extended his hand to present one shiny apple to her.
She reached out. Instead of handing over the fruit, he wrapped the fingers of his other hand around her wrist. The grip was strong and it burned.
It was an aggressive move, and it should have bothered her, not made her melt a little inside. She’d never noticed his hands before. There was something about that big, bony masculine hand that made her imagination riot…
Be cool. If he sees you’re attracted to his prettiness, he’ll give you more of those slick, phony smiles and try to use you.She repeated it twice, to help it sink in. Then she slipped her wrist out of his hold.
“Ms. Paula Raymond, will you accompany me to my family home tonight to celebrate Christmas Eve?” he said in a subdued voice.
“No. And why do you keep calling me that?” She snatched her apple from him.
He watched her bite into the fruit. Watched her crunch away. Watched her.
“It’s your name. I’m showing you I remember it.” His gaze lowered briefly to her sweater. He cleared his throat, then bit into his apple. “This is a good apple.”
“It’s a Honeycrisp.” Had he really just checked out her breasts...again?
He raised one brow and gave the fruit—the one in his hand—a double-take. “Oh, is it, now? A Honeycrisp. What do you know. How about that.”
