I sit back, collaring the enthusiasm for now. Nothing scares a woman away faster than waxing poetic about olives. "Something like that."
There's a long pause. Her eyes dance, and there's something about them I've never seen before. Mischief, maybe? Intelligence, for sure. I like what I see, that much I know.
"I came for the spa," she finally says, answering my first question. One corner of her lips curves. A slow, sly, sexy grin that has my own lips peeling apart in anticipation. "But now I'm hoping to try the best olive oil in the southwest."
Blame it on my brain short-circuiting in the presence of unparalleled beauty, but my stupid lips say, "Chances are you will, if you order food from the spa restaurant. Their dressings are made with my oil."
My oil. What a nerd. Who talks like that? I am leaving here and going straight to Penn's house to insist he punch me in the mouth.
I seem to have fallen in favor with Cupid, because Mallory smiles. Again, she appears to like how unpolished I am. Dusted in Arizona dirt. Gloves and pruning shears tucked in my back pockets.
It boosts my confidence enough that I say, "If you decide you've had enough eucalyptus and zen rock gardens, I'd love to take you out for a drink." My eyebrows lift. "Assuming secret speakeasy's are your thing."
Mallory moves to cross one leg over the other, her shoulder disrupting the purse straps she has wound over the back of her chair. The purse tumbles to the ground, contents spilling over the floor. I'm out of my seat quickly, picking up a pack of gum, a wallet, her phone, retrieving a bottle that has rolled under a nearby table.
"Oh my gosh, thank you," she says, breathless. Worry slides in along her eyebrows. She's off the stool now, holding open her purse so I can toss everything inside.
It's at this moment I happen to glance down, and as the plastic bottle I'm holding rolls off my open palm and into the brown leather purse, I see the label.
Prenatal vitamins?
My stomach sinks.
I look into her eyes. Guilt floods those pretty brown irises.
"You're expecting?" Disappointment swings through me. I'd been so attracted to her. Still am, given the way my body's wanting to lean in closer, touch her soft-looking skin. Drop my nose to the top of her head, find out what she smells like.
Her spine straightens, chin lifting. "Yes," she says, voice clear. Resolute, and also a little challenging.
As if she is challenging me to challenge her. About what, I do not know.
Dammit.My hand rakes over my face, irritation finding space beside the overwhelming disappointment. Was I seriously hitting on a pregnant woman? Even if I didn't know it, I feel a little foolish. "Let me guess. You're taking a weekend for yourself and thought it'd be fun to flirt with a local. Did you leave your wedding ring behind in the hotel room?"
She's nonplussed by my accusatory question. Secret revealed, she moves her purse from in front of her abdomen. The bump of her stomach is small, something I'd never notice and would certainly never comment on, but now that I know it's there, it's all I see.
"Hugo," she says my name softly, eyes watching me with care. Too much care for someone who should be ashamed they were caught flirting with another man. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself.
And then, like an anvil, it hits me. Her name. I've seen it before, barely registering it when hastily sending the emails to the trash bin.
I see it now in my mind, the email signature. And below it,Host of Case Files. "Mallory Hawkins." A thick exhale slides between my lips, appalled by her audacity. My stomach pitches, back teeth grinding. "This is so wrong."
"Please," she says, arms shooting out to stop me, though I haven't gone anywhere. I step back, and her seeking arms drop. "I only want to speak with you."
My arms cross. "I got that from your emails."
"The ones you ignored?"
"Deleted."
She winces. "Listen, I know that?—"
I hold up a hand, stopping her. "We're not talking."
Her eyes widen, worry in those brown irises. "I think?—"
My work boots protest the tile floor with the swiftness of my turn. I want nothing to do with this conversation. Or the beautiful woman trying to have it.
I stride from the restaurant, well aware I have drawn plenty of attention to myself. The small town gossip mill will be churning in no time.
