He blinked, and the wary look in his eyes disappeared—but she sensed he had been a long way from here, just as she had moments before, and he seemed a lot less happy about his journey.
‘Nothing…’ He scrubbed a hand down his face. But she knew it definitely wasn’t nothing. Were his Christmas memories even more difficult than hers? Perhaps they could make a new start, rediscover the season here, together?
But when her heart pulsed hard in her chest, she felt like that young girl again—yearning for a closeness, for a connection that probably wasn’t even real.
Theo Caras’ crappy Christmases as a child were not her concern. And it wasn’t her job to fix them, either. Any more than she needed to forgive, or even understand, her mother’s decisionto choose Danny Charbonnet over her marriage and her three children.
Theo hefted one of the bags onto his shoulder. ‘I need to crash.’ He slung her pack to her. Then nodded at the other large bag he’d brought in from the car, which was still on the floor.
‘I asked my assistant to pack a bag for you, too,’ he said. ‘Toiletries and clothes and stuff. Apparently, you need seven layers to go outside here. The larder and cold room are fully stocked if you want to eat—assuming you know how to cook. I’ll take the room at the end of the corridor. Don’t wake me unless it’s an emergency.’
After delivering the dismissive and frankly insulting list of demands, he strode out of the living space and was gone—leaving her volcano simmering again.
Ten minutes later it had erupted, because she had no clue how to say ‘shower on’ in Greek.
‘You’re going to have to give me some Greek lessons!’
‘Huh?’ Theo squinted at the woman standing by the kitchen island and tried to clear the sleep from his brain. He’d been exhausted last night when they’d arrived. And crashed headlong into the deluxe king he’d found in the main bedroom. Fourteen hours later, he’d woken still groggy and sporting an impressive morning boner. And this woman was the cause, thanks to the erotic dreams that had managed to permeate his coma.
She looked young and fresh and a lot more approachable than she had last night in the morning combo of stretchy black pants and a simple white T, but for the glare she was currently trying to eviscerate him with.
He grunted and scratched his stomach—aware of the reaction building in his groin that he’d only just handled in the shower.
‘Why do you need Greek lessons?’ he asked as he opened the double-wide fridge and dug out a carton of OJ.
‘Because I can’t even work the shower—and my lights were on all night because I couldn’t turn them off.’
He chugged the juice straight from the carton, then lobbed it into the trash, before tugging his phone out of his sweatpants.
‘Which room are you in?’
‘The one down the hallway from yours.’
He adjusted his pants. Too close for comfort, then.
After connecting to the house’s satellite system, he tapped out a message to his assistant. A reply popped up a few seconds later.
‘Give it ten minutes, I’ve asked to have your room’s controls switched to English.’
‘Just my room?’ she asked, still sending him the death glare.
‘Yeah, what’s the problem?’
‘What if I want to control other things in the house?’
‘Like what?’ he countered.
‘Like maybe the kitchen equipment.’
‘You planning on doing the catering?’ he goaded.
The glare became radioactive, but for some reason it only made the heat in his groin pulse harder. What was it about this woman that the angrier she got, the more he wanted her?
‘I intend to cook formyself, yes,’ she replied.
‘You know how to cook?’ he asked, doubt dripping from every word.
‘Not precisely,’ she said, her gaze skidding away from his as her cheeks pinkened. ‘But I want to learn, before I get to Zurich, or the money I have won’t last.’
