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Or maybe it is. I don't know. Like I said, there's no handbook for this situation.
Damn Lucy.
“Sunshine,” he says gently, but even though it's gentle there's a roughness to it.
When he calls me Sunshine, I suddenly feel like I do need to escape. Like if I don't, he'll devour me. Nerves have my limbs moving to the door.
I'm still facing him, walking backwards as I call, “Well, I'm glad you like them. It's almost time for dinner. And I don't know how much more work you have to do. But I'm hungry. I was thinking of making something. I don't know what yet. I haven't—I haven't really snooped through your freezers or your fridge. Or,” I stop talking because he is definitely amused. As he watches me, lazily leaning back in his chair, I feel my face heat to an impossibly hot shade of red. “I'm babbling. I'm sorry.” I’m so embarrassed, I almost want to cry as I admit quietly, “You make me nervous.”
He tips his head to the side, surprised. “I make you nervous?”
“Yes,” I breathe. “I think you would make pretty much any woman nervous, Nick.”
He frowns like he doesn't know what to make of me. He's not the only one. Then he speaks, “I planned to grill steak tonight.”
“Of course,” I laugh, feeling silly. “You cook.”
“I do.” He leans forward in his chair, his hand moving to the keys on his laptop. “I’ll see you soon, Sunshine.”
“Okay,” I breathe, or maybe I wheeze—and then I run from his office. Desperate to escape, to regroup, to get a friggin handle on my friggin emotions.
What the hell is going on?
ChapterEight
Sadie
Nick makes us a gourmet meal. Steak, mashed potatoes covered in fresh mushroom sauce, and sauteed vegetables. He poured two glasses of red wine and set the table. It felt romantic. It felt good.
I ate my dinner and drained my glass of wine, which Nick refilled. It made my skin feel flushed and hot, and my head light. Because I'm not much of a drinker, before the wine could also make my tongue loose, I excused myself to the bathtub. I'm not sure if it's the dinner we shared or the thought of me in a tub—his tub—but a hot look settled in Nick's eyes. There was a hunger in that look.
The man is starving.
I'm not entirely sure what he's starving for, though. Still, that look follows me all the way to my bedroom, and then across the hall into the bathroom. It follows me as I pour the luxurious lavender and vanilla bubble bath into the tub. It follows me as I sink into warm water, and it follows me still when I get myself dressed again, this time in adorable jammies. They're rustic and everything I imagine one would wear on Christmas holiday in this house.
I've been dreaming of this house for six weeks.
Lucy talked this house up. The wood, the stone, the fireplace, and the Mountain view. So, my jammies are flannel and plaid. The pants are loose, and the top is buttoned, under which I wear a black tank top. I leave my hair down and damp.
When I rejoin Nick in the living room, he's still wearing the same clothes he wore all day. A black sweater and dark jeans, but his hair is wet.
Frowning at him, I point at his hair. “Did you have a shower and then get dressed in the same clothes you were in before?”
He runs his fingers through his hair. “No. I went outside. I figured you were in the bath, why not? Take a look at what kind of damage the storm has done so far.”
Worry blooms in my belly and my eyes dart to the window. “Is there damage?”
“There's always damage in a storm like this.”
“Oh.” I wince. “Is it bad?”
He moves to the wood stove, adding another log. “It's not good. A few fallen trees, thankfully none have hit the house, the garage, or the shed out back. Still, we're only a day in. No knowing what tomorrow will bring, or tonight for that matter.”
“Do you think it's going to get worse?” I frown at the window, not that I can see anything but blowing white.
“Don't know. Probably.”
“Oh.” I hug myself. “Will you lose power?”
