‘I can help,’ he argued. He hated her stubborn insistence on managing all by her damned self. She’d had to manage all kinds of hell as the primary carer, for not one, but two terminally ill elderly people. Alone. Why couldn’t she say yes to a bit of muscle to help lug some bloody boxes now? Why couldn’t she smile and say ‘sure’ and ‘thanks’?
She looked over her shoulder, shooting him a quelling look. ‘I don’t need you to.’
Don’t want you to,was what she really meant.
Gabe flung the bag of drugs into the corner of the garage. He could hear her stropping around up in her postage-stamp-sized studio. His fists clenched. There’d been no need for her to get snippy withhim—the pipes weren’t his fault, despite his random wish that she’d move in with him, he hadn’t tampered with theplumbing like some sick stalker. But from years of working with finely balanced athletes, Gabe knew that a bad mood was often aggravated by not enough food. She must have gone straight from work to her driving test and then to the Blades practice. She had to be hungry. So he’d feed her. He wanted her to acceptsomethingfrom him tonight—and not merely sex.
He knocked on her door an hour or so later. For once she answered almost right away but that wasn’t what made him blink so rapidly. No, she’d changed into the most hideous trackpants he’d ever seen, and, given he worked with sportsmen, he’d seen some ratty trackies. These were thick, massive and shapeless and he really just wanted to remove them then and there. But he reminded himself that wasn’t the first priority.
‘I’m guessing you probably haven’t made dinner so I made enough for you too.’ He refused to be offended if she said no to him. Even if he had gone to a stupid amount of effort.
‘You have?’ She blinked at him.
He nodded. ‘It’s on the deck if you want to come and get it.’
She hesitated.
‘It’s getting cold and I’ve gone to a lot of trouble.’ He put on some pressure with a wicked look. He wanted to see her smile.
And she did smile—all skeptical, as if she didn’t believe he’d ever go to any trouble. Oh, the irony.
‘Okay, give me a second.’ Roxie stepped back inside and shut the door.
Gabe had gotten over his snappy temper flare, surely she could too. Hopefully he’d forgotten her angst moment in the garage. She was too tough to let a blasted pipe get her down—so it would delay her trip another couple of weeks perhaps; worse things had happened. She grabbed the half-bottle with the D onit—that and Gabe back in stud mode would help bubble her out of the funk.
‘Wow,’ she said, taking in the laden plates on the outdoor dining table. ‘Not sure the Bolly is good enough for this.’
‘Don’t get too effusive.’ He pulled out her chair. ‘It’s only burger and chips.’
‘Not your average burger and chips.’ She sat, breathing in the yum display. They were bean patties, ripped-from-the-plant salad and freshly dug new potatoes cooked then crisped up something yummy. Her mouth watered, her appetite suddenly screaming. ‘You cooked all this?’
‘I’m a single man, living alone,’ he drawled. ‘You didn’t think I could cook?’
‘But it’s?—’
‘Veggie, I know. Not bad for a beef-farm boy, huh?’ He popped the cork and poured the champagne into two glasses—frowning when that was enough to empty the bottle.
She picked up her fork and took a bite of the patty poking out from the toasted roll. Oh, wow. ‘You really made this from scratch?’
‘Your amazement is insulting.’
She chuckled, warmth trickling back into her chilled body. ‘I’ve never met anyone who makes veggie burgers like these. From scratch. Not even me.’
He pulled his phone from his pocket and swiped the screen a few times. ‘Okay, I got the recipe online. Here.’ She angled her head to read the page he’d pulled up. ‘TheHeganator?’ She didn’t just giggle, she squealed, ‘Hegan?’
‘Yeah, cool recipes for the hot vegan male.’ He turned the phone back to study it, oh, so intently. Then he peered over the top of the phone, eyes twinkling. ‘I think it’s really written by a woman. Apparently hegans like burgers and barbecues.’
‘You’re hot but you’re not a hegan,’ she said, almost all her old flirt tone back.
‘But I can cook like one on occasion.’
‘It is amazing. I mean that in a good way.’ She looked at him and her teasing smile died. ‘Thank you.’
Her heart was beating too hard. She couldn’t remember when someone else had cooked dinner for her. When someone had gone to so much trouble and thought. Someone who bothered to understand what she preferred to eat and not eat. Certainly not her lame ex-boyfriend. The joke died from his eyes too—leaving them warm and gentle and so deep...
She dropped her knife so she had the excuse to break away from that acute, wordless communication. Surely she was reading the wrong messages. It wasn’t caring she was supposed to see in him, it was supposed to be all carnal. But for a weird second there everything had gone upside down and inside out.
‘While I have this out, I want your number,’ he said. She looked back up at him.
