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“I’ve been helping him out a bit around the house and stuff,” she said supercasually. The spoon had been licked bare and she pounced on the bowl, grabbing a smaller spoon with which to scoop up the gooey, delicious leftover batter.
“Have you? That’s nice of you. I didn’t think you knew him that well.”
“I don’t, but he was my partner at the wedding, so I kind of know him. And he needs help. It’s the right thing to do. I’m just helping him out with some meals and stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“Sorry?” Her mother’s question flustered her, and Lia’s eyes widened over the top of her spoon.
“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned helping him with ‘stuff,’ I just wondered what kind of stuff you meant.”
“You know cleaning, cooking, and . . . stuff.” Her mother’s brow lowered in puzzlement, and Lia focused on scooping up another spoonful of chocolate, deliberately evading her mother’s curious gaze.
“What aren’t you saying?” Millicent McGregor asked bluntly, and Lia grimaced. Maybe partial honesty would help.
“It’s embarrassing,” she said uncomfortably. Her words received no response, just a look. An expectant, mom look, complete with raised brows, pursed lips, folded arms, and a tapping foot. “I help him d-dress sometimes.”
She felt her cheeks heating and knew she probably resembled a ripe tomato right now. Her mother’s expression cleared and she laughed, the sound almost relieved.
“Good grief, Dahlia. You had me thinking you were helping him with his dangerous bodyguarding stuff. Maybe handling his gun, or contacting his contacts.” She whispered the last word, and Lia felt her own brows shoot up.
“So . . . what kind of contacts do you expect him to have, Mother?” she asked curiously.
“You know . . .” Her mother’s voice was still a furtive whisper. “Shady kinds.”
“I’m sure his business is entirely legal and aboveboard, Mom.”
“Oh, I don’t mean to imply otherwise.” The other woman looked flustered. “But the nature of his business may necessitate him sometimes being in contact with shady individuals.” She laughed airily and waved a dismissive hand. “But of course, it’s nothing like that, you’re just helping him dress and undress. Well, if you’re already helping him out, then I suppose you can take the cake to him tomorrow.”
“Sure,” Lia said agreeably, happy to keep her mother and Sam from ever speaking. She finished the bowl and looked around for the mixing blades but found them in the sink, soaking in some soapy water. “Why didn’t you save these for me?”
“Don’t be greedy, Dahlia. You know your father has a sweet tooth, too. I had to share some of it with him.”
Dahlia sighed, disappointed.
“I’m going to grab a shower.” She dashed out of the room before her mother could ask her any more questions about her arrangement with Brand.
CHAPTER SIX
Sam was thinking about Lia, and he wanted her to be thinking of him, too. He didn’t want her out with some dick who would try to weasel his way into her bed by the end of the evening. The thought of this anonymous fucker touching her really burned, and Sam couldn’t stop thinking about it, wondering where she was, what they were doing, how they were doing it.
Anyone would think he was jealous, but he wasn’t . . . he was just possessive. Right now, Lia McGregor belonged to him. Whether she knew it or not. He picked up his phone. If he called her, even texted her, it would take her out of whatever moment she was sharing with her Mr. Perfect. It would force her to think of Sam.
He was about to call her when a short, authoritative knock sounded on the back door. Sam nearly dropped his phone in surprise at the unexpected sound, and his head whipped around to look at the door while his entire body went on alert. The handle was turning and he winced, feeling like an idiot for not remembering to check if it was secure. He crouched, ignoring the twinges coming from his various healing wounds, and stealthily moved toward the door. Ready to do battle if it came to that.
The door swung inward and Spencer Carlisle stepped over the threshold. He paused when he saw Sam’s half-crouching stance and lifted his arms slightly, bringing Sam’s attention to the six-pack of beer clutched in the man’s right hand.
“I come in peace, I promise,” the guy said with something close to a grin, and Sam relaxed, feeling like an idiot. “You military types ever switch off?”
“Only when we’re dead, mate,” Sam said easily, stepping forward with the intention of offering his hand until he remembered that his arm was in a cast. The other man seemed to understand his intention, though, and nodded in acknowledgment.
“Brought you some beer. Noticed that Daff didn’t include any in her shopping.”
“Couldn’t come at a better time,” Sam groaned appreciatively.
