A deep voice I’d know anywhere has the hair on my neck standing at attention. I spin around so fast my coffee sloshes over the side of my mug. I let out a yelp at both the throbbing sensation in my hand and the sight of Chris at the bottom of my steps. The mugclonksto the porch flooring, spattering my stocking-clad feet with lava before cracking into at least four different pieces.
“Shit!” I hiss, but I’m not alone in uttering the expletive.
“Sorry,” Chris adds, lumbering up the steps. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“No, you—” I’m about to say he didn’t, but I’m still startled. What is he doing here? “Hey! Hi. Um…good morning.”
“Are you all right?”
Lines of concern etch his face as he gestures to my hand. I shake it out, flinging droplets of coffee off it and schooling my features.
“Yeah. I’m fine.” He frowns down at the mess between us, so I try to make light of the situation. “But I guess my Sunshine Diner mug has seen its day. Just, uh, wait here a second and I’ll go get a broom and the dustpan.” Tiptoeing over the fractured pieces, I do a double-take as he gets to a knee. “Careful you don’t cut yourself.”
“It’s just a few shards. I’m really sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
I talked myself into thinking his whole‘good thing I know where you live’comment was just talk since he hadn’t bothered to show up earlier in the week. Now that he’s here, though, I’m not sure what to do with at-my-front-door Chris. At-my-bedroom-window Chris—no brainer. But this is what I asked for. Wasn’t it? And he delivered.
“Are you going to keep them?”
“Huh?”
“The pieces.” He gestures, setting another into his cupped palm.
“No. I don’t think any amount of glue will fix that.”
He nods, frowning at the collection of fragments in his hand as though he’s mourning the loss of my mug. Looking up at me, his face is comparable to a child asking for forgiveness.
“Do you mind if I take them?”
“You want my broken coffee mug?”
“That’s what I use for my mosaics. Broken dishes, ceramics…”
“Oh! Right. Yeah. Sure. Go ahead. Um, let me go get you a grocery bag or something.”
Hurrying inside, I slide into my kitchen in a veryDumb and Dumberversion of Tom Cruise’s move inRisky Business, windmilling my arms to keep from face-planting.
Bag. Bag. Bag, I chant silently. Fortunately, my brain starts working enough that I locate a freezer bag that should serve as a viable means of transport.
I stop sprinting in time to prevent myself from running smack into my door and walk back outside at the speed of a calm adult. He drops the pieces inside while I hold it open. My skin prickles with gooseflesh when his fingers brush against mine.
A stilted smile shapes his mouth, and he takes the bag, raising it momentarily. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
I smile back because I don’t know what else to do. That, and I hope it’s the equivalent of a white flag of peace. Remy, threat-level zero. I can appear in control of my emotions and drama-free… as long as he doesn’t touch me or, as Jamie so eloquently put it, ‘eye-fuck’ me again.
Shifting in place, he scratches the back of his neck and glances down at my pajama pants. I wish I’d worn sexy pajama pants…orownedsexy pajama pants. Not that I want to have sex. Sort of. But looking sexy is better than looking like you’re having a midlife crisis.
“I take it you’re not working out today? I’m sorry I just showed up unannounced. I guess I should have asked for more details.”
I take in his attire, similar to what he wore to the center that day—gray sweatpants, a faded blue T-shirt, and worn tennis shoes.That’swhy he’s here?
Okay. I can work with that.
“No!” I blurt so loud he flinches. “I mean, yes. Yes, I was just about to get ready.”
