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Crap. I wipe my sweaty hands down my sides.
What am I doing here?
Can’t breathe. I move to the bay window, needing fresh air. I turn the handle and push the window open. Wind rushes inside, whipping my loose hair around my face and my dress against my legs. I inhale, tasting salt and gritty particles of sand on my tongue.
My chest aches. I feel… shaken. Overcome. As if all that has happened in my life so far is coming back, rushing me, crushing me.
I miss my mom. I even miss brother and my dad, that bastard. I miss having a home where I can feel safe, protected. Where I don’t have to worry constantly about the things I say or do. Where I can let my guard down. And this man… he’s not safe, I can tell. Not for me.
Neither am I, for him. He’s got it good, housesitting this mansion. Spending his vacation doing the odd job in the garden, cleaning the pool. Meeting girls and inviting them over for dinner. Living a summer dream.
He doesn’t need my shit, especially if it spills over here.
It won’t, I tell myself. It fucking won’t. Relax.
A noise behind me has me spinning, hand going for a gun, heart in my throat.
So much for relaxing.
“Raylin?” He’s standing beside the table, a hot pot in his hands. His oven-mittens are a deep blue, like his eyes which are currently narrowed to slits. His hot gaze rakes over me, leaving a trail of sparks. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Of course.” I look away, hating the heat rising to my chest and neck, the way my body betrays me when I’m trying to appear cool and unaffected. “This smells good.”
“It does.” He leans over, places the pot on the holder. “Haven’t had it in ages. It’s Mario’s specialty, and it used to be my favorite back when I—”
I wonder why he stops, eyes wide as if he’s seen a ghost, one gloved hand resting on the tabletop. A flash of emotion goes over his face. Confusion, fear or pain—not sure.
What’s going on?
“Hey, Storm…” I push away from the window, reaching for him.
He blinks and straightens before I make it, recovering quickly, but that flash of something I glimpsed bothers me like a thorn under the skin and hooks me like a fish on a line. I want to know more about him, find out what thought cut him so deep.
Dammit, no. I came here for the dinner. I’m famished, and the lasagna does smell delicious.
He does, too, an irritating voice pipes up inside my head, and I grit my teeth. He smells like pepper and cinnamon, sugar and salt. Like power and sex.
It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. I shouldn’t ache to rub my nose over his skin, breathe him in, lick a trail down his muscled chest and flat stomach, all the way down to—
“Have a seat,” he says, his voice low, gliding over my skin like rough silk. “I’ll be right back.”
Mouth dry, I slip into one of the chairs and stare down at the fine china and elegant silverware. Odd that they’d let him use all that. Unless it’s their picnic set, or something.
I snicker at the thought—because, hey, china and actual Bavarian crystal, man—as he appears from the direction of the kitchen once again, carrying an open bottle of wine, condensation running down the green glass and sparkling in the light from the spotlights.
Okay, so that’s not what I’m ogling right now. No, I’m staring at his bulging pecs and biceps. Again.
Totally his fault for not p
utting a shirt on.
“Wine?” I nod, and he pours frothing, sparkling wine into my fluted glass and his. He sets the bottle on the table and grabs a spoon. “Lasagna?”
As if I’d say no. I lift my plate, and he dishes out a steaming piece, béchamel sauce pooling around it. Saliva pools in my mouth, and for the first time tonight my attention isn’t on him.
I wait until he has served himself a piece—because politeness and manners, duh—and then I dig in, unable to hold back a second longer. My eyes all but roll up in my head in pleasure as I take the first bite of spicy-meaty-and-creamy goodness.
Oh God. I stuff my face with it, barely chewing before I swallow. Maybe it’s rude, but I couldn’t care less about that right now. I inhale my lasagna piece and surface only to see if I can have some more.
