been a pretty long dry spell, after all.
“It’s just dinner,” he reminded himself as he trotted down the stairs a few minutes later, hair toweled dry, and the still slightly rumpled long-sleeve tee paired with his jeans. And the increasingly delectable innkeeper was not on the dessert menu. Even if she did look at him like he was dipped in chocolate. And she’d been craving a Godiva fix for weeks.
Funny, he thought, how all those women wanting him for nothing more than his looks or body in Vegas had been a major turnoff. But let Kirby run her soft gray eyes over his towel-clad body a few times and he was fully on board with whatever her little heart desired, no further questions asked.
Yep, that was downright hilarious.
He forced his wayward thoughts elsewhere so he didn’t enter the dining room sporting uncomfortably fitting jeans. Which would have worked out just fine, he was sure, except the instant he entered the dining room, he found her bending over the table, all long legs and sweet heart-shaped ass staring him right in the face. She was wearing form-fitting, soft ivory khakis, an even softer looking, thin blue sweater, and had her hair pulled up off her neck—a perfectly beautiful, slender span of creamy skin that he was a lot more anxious to taste than whatever it was she was presently setting on the table…
Yeah, the plans for his immediate future were now solely focused on taking his seat as quickly as possible, and spreading that neatly folded linen napkin sitting on his dinner plate over his lap instead.
He cleared his throat so as not to startle her, which startled her anyway. She clattered the last dish to the table and turned quickly around, her hand on the table for support. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I should have knocked, I guess.”
“No, no. Don’t be silly.”
He took in the high color blooming in her cheeks and wondered if it was from the heat in the kitchen…or the heat he’d swear was cranking pretty damn good right here in the dining room.
Oh, Brett, my man, you are in very big trouble.
“Kitten okay?” he managed to ask.
“She’s fine,” Kirby said, her gaze running the length of him, then abruptly locking on his. “I, um, blocked off an area on the back porch and made a little bed, put some food and water out there. She’s all set.” The end of her sentence was punctuated by a crashing sound, followed by a rather petrified sounding yowl. “Okay, maybe not so fine.” Kirby headed toward the kitchen and Brett followed.
They found demon kitty attached by its claws on the screen door that separated kitchen from porch.
“I should have mentioned,” he said sardonically, “she likes to climb things.”
“Very funny. I thought I had her penned by stacking some old empty moving boxes.” She gingerly pushed the door open, kitty still clinging to the opposite side, and glanced out. “Well, they were stacked. For such a tiny thing, her climbing skills are already legendary.”
Brett slipped out behind Kirby and tried to calm the still-yowling cat by stroking its head and scratching behind the ears. Instead of hissing and getting more frantic, she quieted, and eventually he could feel the tiny body relax, bit by bit. “That’s right,” he said, keeping his voice low, smooth, “it’s going to be okay.” After a few minutes, he was able to coax the kitten off the screen and into his hands, claws in for a change. “See? We’re here to help you.” He turned to find Kirby staring at him, a bemused expression on her face. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Something,” he countered. “Why the look?”
She tried a “who me?” expression, then shook her head and said, “I’m just trying to reconcile the soft-spoken kitty whisperer with the leather clad biker dude who rolled into my driveway earlier today. I’m betting your biker buddies would have a few things to say about your new sidekick there.”
“Possibly. If I had any biker
“It’s just dinner,” he reminded himself as he trotted down the stairs a few minutes later, hair toweled dry, and the still slightly rumpled long-sleeve tee paired with his jeans. And the increasingly delectable innkeeper was not on the dessert menu. Even if she did look at him like he was dipped in chocolate. And she’d been craving a Godiva fix for weeks.
Funny, he thought, how all those women wanting him for nothing more than his looks or body in Vegas had been a major turnoff. But let Kirby run her soft gray eyes over his towel-clad body a few times and he was fully on board with whatever her little heart desired, no further questions asked.
Yep, that was downright hilarious.
He forced his wayward thoughts elsewhere so he didn’t enter the dining room sporting uncomfortably fitting jeans. Which would have worked out just fine, he was sure, except the instant he entered the dining room, he found her bending over the table, all long legs and sweet heart-shaped ass staring him right in the face. She was wearing form-fitting, soft ivory khakis, an even softer looking, thin blue sweater, and had her hair pulled up off her neck—a perfectly beautiful, slender span of creamy skin that he was a lot more anxious to taste than whatever it was she was presently setting on the table…
Yeah, the plans for his immediate future were now solely focused on taking his seat as quickly as possible, and spreading that neatly folded linen napkin sitting on his dinner plate over his lap instead.
He cleared his throat so as not to startle her, which startled her anyway. She clattered the last dish to the table and turned quickly around, her hand on the table for support. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I should have knocked, I guess.”
“No, no. Don’t be silly.”
He took in the high color blooming in her cheeks and wondered if it was from the heat in the kitchen…or the heat he’d swear was cranking pretty damn good right here in the dining room.
Oh, Brett, my man, you are in very big trouble.
“Kitten okay?” he managed to ask.
“She’s fine,” Kirby said, her gaze running the length of him, then abruptly locking on his. “I, um, blocked off an area on the back porch and made a little bed, put some food and water out there. She’s all set.” The end of her sentence was punctuated by a crashing sound, followed by a rather petrified sounding yowl. “Okay, maybe not so fine.” Kirby headed toward the kitchen and Brett followed.
They found demon kitty attached by its claws on the screen door that separated kitchen from porch.
“I should have mentioned,” he said sardonically, “she likes to climb things.”
“Very funny. I thought I had her penned by stacking some old empty moving boxes.” She gingerly pushed the door open, kitty still clinging to the opposite side, and glanced out. “Well, they were stacked. For such a tiny thing, her climbing skills are already legendary.”
Brett slipped out behind Kirby and tried to calm the still-yowling cat by stroking its head and scratching behind the ears. Instead of hissing and getting more frantic, she quieted, and eventually he could feel the tiny body relax, bit by bit. “That’s right,” he said, keeping his voice low, smooth, “it’s going to be okay.” After a few minutes, he was able to coax the kitten off the screen and into his hands, claws in for a change. “See? We’re here to help you.” He turned to find Kirby staring at him, a bemused expression on her face. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Something,” he countered. “Why the look?”
She tried a “who me?” expression, then shook her head and said, “I’m just trying to reconcile the soft-spoken kitty whisperer with the leather clad biker dude who rolled into my driveway earlier today. I’m betting your biker buddies would have a few things to say about your new sidekick there.”
“Possibly. If I had any biker
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