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It wasn’t just the words. It was the way his heated stare took me in. As his eyes roamed the length of me, his gaze was so intense, my body reacted like he was actually touching me. It was clear I’d picked the right mountain man.
He shook his head and took a deep breath. “Sorry, got a little distracted there. Come on in.”
He stepped back, pulling the door with him and gesturing for me to enter. That was when the aroma inside hit me. I couldn’t quite place it, but whatever it was, it made my mouth water.
“My mom’s family’s Italian,” he said. “So those are the foods I cook best.”
He closed the door behind me as I took in the surroundings. It was a typical bachelor pad, complete with a pool table where a dining room table should be and a gigantic TV above a fireplace in front of a couch and recliner.
“Italian sounds amazing,” I said.
Smiling, I turned to face him. He reached out a hand, and for a second, I thought this was it. He wanted to go straight to bed. Maybe dinner was in the oven, giving us plenty of time for an appetizer. Or maybe we’d just let the food go cold. I wouldn’t mind.
But his gaze lowered to my right hand, and I remembered I was holding my purse. I handed it over and tried to catch my breath as I watched him set it down on the end of the pool table and gesture for me to follow him.
I couldn’t help but check out his backside as we walked. Like earlier today, he wore jeans, but these were darker, as well as a little baggier. Not so baggy that I couldn’t stare at his ass as we entered the kitchen and pulled back a chair at a small round table.
Was he as nervous as I was now? Not possible. This guy had experience. This guy went to Boone and slept with random women he met in bars. That was what I’d gotten from our conversation, anyway. And for some reason, it made me hot, just thinking about a man like that wanting to go to bed with me. It was probably weird, but I deserved a few fantasies after the past couple of dull-as-dirt years.
“My plates aren’t fine china or anything,” Jared said with a laugh.
Once he had me seated, he headed over to the stove, giving me plenty of time to eye the place settings. The plates were white with a faded blue pattern around the rim. The two forks didn’t match. They had completely different handles. And they rested on top of what looked like two folded-over sheets of paper towels.
I smiled. This guy was unpracticed at luring women to his cabin for a night of dinner and sex. That was good news. I liked that he was experienced, but I didn’t want to think that I was one of a long line of women he’d brought back here.
“I know you’ve been deprived of meat,” Jared said as he returned from the kitchen.
My eyes widened, and I sucked in a breath. He was carrying a bowl, but were his words some sort of sexual overture?
As soon as he set the bowl on the table, though, I saw what he meant. He’d made some sort of pasta with marinara sauce, but it also had large chunky meatballs on top of it.
“Do you like wine?” He stepped back. “I stopped by the store and got red and white. I usually drink beer.”
The only alcohol my ex would drink was red wine. He claimed there was something heart healthy in it. What I really wanted was some super sweet white wine. The kind that I drank with my dormmates in college.
“I’ll take the white wine,” I said.
Even if it wasn’t sweet, it would be better than red. Besides, I needed a little liquid courage—just enough to lower my inhibitions. Just enough to make me forget that my ex liked to poke my stomach and call me “Flaborama.”
“Be right back,” Jared said, heading toward the fridge.
When he returned to the table, he held a bottle of riesling with a screw top. He didn’t mention the lack of a cork, and I had to hold back a smile. Screw cap wine, beer, and spaghetti and meatballs. This guy couldn’t be more opposite my ex. And I loved him for it.
Love. Ha! Not love, lust. The goal tonight was to keep my heart from getting involved. The best sex of my life. Nothing more, nothing less.
And in the morning, I’d check out of the hotel and head back to Roanoke. Two items checked off my list. The rest, I could take care of on my own.
“I don’t have wine glasses, either,” he said.
His apologetic tone made me truly feel for him. He was trying to impress me.
“You’re getting some tonight no matter what happens here,” I said. “You don’t have to work so hard.”
He’d slid into his seat by then and reached for the bowl of noodles. But my words froze his movements. He stared at me, those eyebrows arched as they’d been at the pool earlier.
“I want to work this hard,” he said. “You deserve the best. You deserve a guy who works hard to make you happy.”
I felt that pressure in the back of my throat that meant tears wanted to form. No. There would be no crying tonight. Crying was horrible foreplay.
