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And his feelings went right back where they belonged.
“I appreciate all your help today, Sloane. I’ve got to get back to the restaurant. Just give me a call if you need anything, okay?”
And then he was gone.
19
Sloane flipped the collar of her cherry-red pea coat over her ears to ward off the biting wind and hitsendbefore she lost either her nerve or the feeling in her toes.
Gavin picked up on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Hi!” she chirruped, perky enough to make herself cringe. She bit her tongue into submission and clutched her fuzzy scarf tighter around her neck to trap her dwindling body heat before it made a jailbreak. Next time she chose a place to live, it was going to have an average temperature in the mid-eighties, minimum.
“Sloane? Is everything okay?”
God, his seriousness knew no bounds. She pulled in a breath, but cut it short when it froze to her throat and refused to migrate down to her lungs. “Sure. Why do you ask?”
“Um, because it’s ten-thirty on a Sunday night and you sound like you’re in a tin can. What’s going on?”
Well, shit. Best to just come out with it then. Otherwise she was going to end up with a serious case of frostbite to go along with her idiotic impulses.
“Well, you said I should call you if I needed anything, and as it turns out, I need something.” She swallowed a mouthful of subarctic air, wondering how on earth her palms could still sweat in weather like this.
Gavin stammered. “You…what? What do you need?”
No going back now.Sloane straightened in her spot on the weatherworn porch boards.
“I need you to open your front door.”
After a telltale click, the door swung open, bringing them face-to-face. “What are you doing here?” he murmured with a look of pure surprise. A flicker of something she couldn’t identify glinted in his melted-chocolate eyes, and suddenly, the cold felt like it was on some faraway planet rather than invading her personal space right down to her bones.
“I thought you might be hungry, so I brought you something to eat.” She lifted two thick paper bags bearing La Dolce Vita’s name and logo, and his cinnamon-colored brows moved in the direction of his hairline.
“We don’t do takeout at the restaurant.”
“Yeah, well, I have friends in high places,” she said, allowing a saucy grin to emerge on her lips. “And they told me you haven’t eaten anything since lunch. But unless you want piccata popsicles, I’d invite me in.”
“Oh! Sorry. You must be freezing. Come in.” Gavin took both bags from her frozen fingers and ushered her into the cottage. “These friends of yours didn’t happen to mention that chicken piccata is one of my favorite dishes, did they?”
She followed him into the kitchen, rubbing her hands together in an act of utter futility as he lifted the bags to the counter. She slanted him a look and debated her answer.
Screw it. Subtlety had never been one of her strong suits.
“No, but they did mention that you left early, and after what happened before, I was a little, um, worried about you.”
Gavin’s hands stopped with a Styrofoam container halfway out of the bag, but it was a momentary glitch. He popped the lid off the container to check the contents. “I appreciate it. But I’m fine.”
Sloane’s bullshit meter erupted like Vesuvius on a bad day, but instinct told her not to push him. Not yet, anyway. “So, what kind of wine goes best with chicken piccata?” she asked, moving toward the cupboard to take out a couple of plates.
It got a grin out of him, albeit a small one. “French Chablis. You want some?”
“Well, that depends. Is it three hundred dollars a bottle?” No way was she getting suckered into that again. At least, not without knowing it upfront.
“No.” Gavin passed her a container full of salad greens and the bowl he’d just pulled from the counter, and his grin kicked up a notch. “Not even close, although it’s still good.”
“Whew. Drinking wine that expensive makes me sweat.”
“Wine is supposed to lower your stress levels, not jack them higher.”
