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“I see that.” She eyed the burgers and tried not to salivate.
Muttering something under his breath, Grant slapped a thick burger onto a freshly baked bun, put it on a plate, and shoved it toward her. “Go away.”
“Can I get some fries with this?”
His glower deepened. He stalked to the deep fryer and scooped a batch of fresh, crispy fries onto her plate.
“How about a milksha—”
“Goaway.”
“You said you’d cook me three meals a day.”
“Starting on Wednesday when my parents get here.” He snapped his eyebrows together and shot her another scowly look. “Do I need to say it again?”
Before he started breathing fire, Rory grabbed a bottle of ketchup and scurried out the back door. His parents were due to arrive late Wednesday afternoon, so they didn’t have a heck of a lot of time to make it look like they were living together. Hopefully, Joanna had already realized tech girl Rory wasn’t much of a decorator.
The back door to his house was unlocked, so she ventured inside. Might as well get acquainted with the place.
Her heartbeat increased as she closed the door behind her. In a direct contrast to the noisy, bustling tavern, a quiet peace filled the house.
Everything was in shades of taupe, light gray, chocolate. A warm, honey-brown leather sofa and chairs sat in the living room, with a woven throw rug covering the worn hardwood floor. Her suitcases, computer hardware, and speakers were all stacked in front of a stone fireplace.
Shelves full of books lined the room, and framed artwork from local artists decorated the walls. There were paintings of the ocean splashing against the rocks, the dusky shadows of the redwood forests, and a downtown scene signedH. Higgins—the lovely, elderly owner of the Outside Inn.
Not unexpectedly, the kitchen was bright and pristine with shiny, stainless-steel appliances, a gourmet coffee-maker, and a polished little table by the windows.
After setting her plate down, Rory explored the rest of the house—the bathroom with its old-fashioned pedestal sink and towels that were fluffier than sheep, a linen closet so neatly stacked with sheets, pillows, and blankets that Martha Stewart would be impressed, and a shoebox bedroom with a huge picture window framing a view of the redwoods. A king-sized bed covered with a navy comforter and several pillows dominated the room.
It was…charming. Not a word she’d ever have associated with Grant Taylor. There was nothing feminine or frilly in the décor, but it had a warmth she hadn’t expected.
What had she expected? Sports memorabilia and a plasma screen TV?
She let her gaze linger on his bed. She could easily picture him asleep, the navy sheets twisted around his body like ocean waves. Lying on his stomach with the thick, soft comforter pushed to his waist, his body moving in the rhythm of sleep, clutching a pillow against his muscled chest…
Letting out a breath, she retreated back to the kitchen and sat at the table to eat the burger and fries.
Even with her equilibrium about Grant jolting up and down like an earthquake reading on the Richter scale, she’d successfully made it through a weekend with his family at an extravagant wedding. She could handle another week with just his parents.
The question was…could she handle a week withhim?
Just being close to him was an exercise in lust and self-control. She’d certainly noticed his good looks and sexiness over the past two years, but she’d never once imagined hooking up with him.
Okay, maybe she’dwonderedevery now and then, but she’d gotten so comfortable with their relationship as it was that some part of her didn’t dare shake up the status quo. She was accustomed to him beingright over there, and if getting closer to him changed that in any way…
No. She’d needed Grant Taylor to be exactly who he was and where he was.
Except now that she was moving and he wouldn’t be right around the corner anymore—
A shiver ran down her spine. She’d better not let her thoughts go in that direction when she had other things to focus on. Like ensuring that his parents’ visit went without a single hitch.
After washing the plate, she wandered back into the living room. She desperately wanted to set up her computer so she could distract herself with work, but since she had no idea where Grant wanted her to put it, she’d have to wait until tomorrow.
He obviously had no evidence of a computer. Not even a laptop. He had a crap ton of books, though. Callie would like him. Gordon Prescott would have, too.
Tilting her head, she studied the spines of the books—everything from mystery novels to political biographies. One entire shelf held nothing but cookbooks. She opened one by Jacques Pepin and Julia Child, scanning the recipes of everything from whitefish in lemon-butter sauce toharicots verts.
As she settled on the sofa with the book, the back door opened. She turned, her belly tensing as Grant strode in, his hair messy and his wrinkled T-shirt clinging to his chest. The smoky scent of the grill still hovered around him, and lines of fatigue etched his face.
