Any resolve I had left crumbles in a split second. How can I be pissed off when he’s brought me dinner, even though I yelled at him?
As hard as I keep trying to convince myself he’s a dick, and that I can’t wait to see the back of him, I know he isn’t. I know he’s smart, funny, ambitious, and wants to do some good in the world as well as make piles of cash. Add that to the backside, the shoulders, the dimple, and the skills I now know he has with the magical being in his pants, and I’m a lost cause.
Elsa immediately rushes over to sniff the food.
Owen lifts it out of her reach and holds the plate and glass out to me, his arms fully outstretched, like he’s afraid to get too close. “I brought you these.”
There’s a slight question in his voice, like he thinks there’s a chance I might tell him to stick the food where it will never catch sunlight.
Elsa cranes her neck and twitches her nose in the smoked-salmony air.
My heart warms at his thoughtfulness, while my belly screams for the contents of that plate. I push scraps of yarn, scissors, and knitting needles to one side and point at the empty space. “Thank you.”
He puts everything down and crouches in front of me, his hand on my knee. A sizzle of anticipation runs up my thigh.
“I’m sorry it sounded like I was being sarcastic about your grandparents. I understand how much they meant to you.” His voice is soft, low, and warm enough to melt every part of me if I let it. “Because I’ve never felt anything like they must have felt for each other, I guess the whole big love story stuff seems unreal to me.”
He looks up at me under a pleading brow.
I’m in grave danger of being sucked into those sparkling brown pools of honesty and swallowed whole. I can’t do this again. I’m already in trouble after the spectacular sofa experience. I can’t let myself slip and fall into something even more dangerous than his eyes.
In need of a distraction, I reach for a cracker on which he’s artfully arranged some sort of soft cheese, a curl of smoked salmon, and a blob of either the fig or onion fancy stuff. He seems to be good at everything—except dog-sitting, that is.
Ah, it’s the onion one. The deliciousness in my mouth does its job, for a second, of taking my mind off the deliciousness crouched in front of me. Must focus on the oniony bits melting into the salmon and cheese on my tongue. And try to figure out what herb this is in the cracker. Anything to fight the desire to push my fingers through that thick brown hair.
“I know you hate everything I stand for.” Owen looks down at my knee as his thumb strokes back and forth.
The sizzles shoot higher up my inner thigh, causing a dangerous heat at my center. Distraction over.
But I can’t let him seduce me. It was supposed to be a one-night-only thing. He was supposed to be gone by now. Doing it again would make everything even more difficult.
Maybe the champagne will do a better job of refocusing my mind than the food did. The bubbles dance up my nose as I take a sip.
“So, I was thinking,” he says.
Nope. Champagne’s not working either. My legs have developed a mind of their own and are desperate to wrap themselves around him. I stick my feet to the ground like they’ve been nailed down. I reach for an octagonal cracker loaded with bleu cheese and a different condiment, which must be the fig one.Perhaps it will have magical powers of distraction.
“Since you made assumptions about me,” he continues, “because someone like me treated you badly. Maybe you could tell me what happened.”
He watches as I shove the cracker in my mouth. Some of the cheese smears against the side of my lip. Before my tongue can get it, he reaches up, wipes it off with his finger, and offers it for me to lick.
Well, it would be a terrible shame to waste fine bleu cheese.
I wrap my lips around the cheesy tip of his finger. I hadn’t meant for it to be sensual, but my eyes are drawn to his like magnets and, as he holds my gaze, my tongue develops a will of its own, circling his fingertip until I’ve licked off every last scrap.
My lady parts throb in a way I didn’t want them to throb again. Last night has to be a one off. That was the plan.
Owen’s eyes close as I suck his finger and it pops from between my lips. The thrill in my belly flutters up to my chest.
He stands up, and the hard shape in his jeans makes me even more aware of the wetness in my underwear. He grabs the chair behind him and pulls it so close he has to sit with his legs spread to either side of me.
“I think it’s only fair I get to hear the story about the man who caused you to hate me before you’d even met me.” He trails his fingers up and down my thighs.
Good Lord, with him in front of me and the amazing food and champagne next to me, I’m seriously between a rock and a hard place. The hard place being in his pants.
Another sip of the champagne both chills and warms my throat. I cradle my grandparents’ precious wedding flute with both hands—to keep them busy and stop me intertwining my fingers with his.
I guess I might as well tell him. Perhaps reminding myself why I stay away from men—particularly Californians with more cash than ability to drive in the snow—might take my mind off the deep, warm eyes looking up at me as if I’m the only important thing in the world.
