for the camera,” she snapped, reverting to her suspicion that Jen had completely lost it. His eyes darkened and her insides went hot in a way that had nothing to do with the misdirected pepper.
“That’s easy,” he said in a tone that made her wish for silk lingerie and a queen-sized bed.
“So you’re a steelworker,” she said primly, not sure how to answer his obvious innuendo.
“That’s right.”
“What do you build?”
“Lots of things. Buildings, ships. I worked on a bridge for the better part of a year.” He grimaced. “Hot work. Outside all the time, but I like being part of something permanent. You know? People will drive or walk or bicycle over that bridge for generations, and I helped build it.”
She nodded, but really she couldn’t relate. Her business was the opposite, style not substance, the advertisement not the product. Wait a minute. If he’d worked outside—
“Did the sun do that to your hair?”
He stuck a hand through his hair as though he’d forgotten he had any on his head. “Made it a bit lighter, I suppose.”
“You’d pay a few hundred to get that look in a top salon.”
He snorted. “You might.”
And she didn’t even have to ask about the tanning bed. She bet he had tan lines at mid-thigh, if he wore shorts to work, and at the sock mark because he’d wear work boots on the job. Her heart began to pound so hard she felt dizzy. It was real. It was all real. The muscles weren’t gym-designed but literally forged by steel. The hair, the tan—they were natural. He was real. She was so used to dealing with people who, while they may have been given a very nice package in which to hold their bones and blood, liked to help nature along a little. But this guy was the real thing, in a world where even the phrase the real thing was an advertising slogan.
“That’s me. Nothing very exciting. What about you then?”
“Me?”
She almost fell off her chair as she received her second powerful shock of the evening. When was the last time a man she was out with had asked about her? When had she been out with a man on a real honest-to-goodness date, come to think of it? It had to have been six months ago at least, and so forgettable she hadn’t repeated the experience until now. She’d been so immersed in work she’d forgotten—or maybe, a small voice whispered, she’d been using work to avoid the whole messy man/woman thing.
“I work too much,” she admitted.
And the pitiful truth was that work was becoming her life. Since she didn’t seem to have anything more pressing to take its place, her job was growing like some science fiction blob, oozing into more and more of her waking hours and taking over.
“So you’re a workaholic?”
She grimaced, hating the sound of that word and everything it implied, but feeling the need to be honest. “Yes.”
He nodded and seemed to ponder something. How he was going to get out of here gracefully—and fast, perhaps. Then she saw his lips curve ever so slightly as though he were enjoying a private joke. Great. Just great. No wonder she rarely dated. Provoking barely contained laughter in an attractive man wasn’t a big inducement to get back out there.
“Tell me something,” he said, his mouth serious again but amusement lurking deep in his eyes. “Have you got stomach trouble?”
She rubbed her middle, which was surprisingly calm considering she was out on a date and eating spicy food. “I get stress stomach now and again.”
He nodded and the single dimple creased. It would be devastatingly attractive if she didn’t suspect it was caused by him laughing at how pathetic she was.
“Headaches?”
She blinked so hard it hurt. “What, are you a steelworker by day and a doctor by night?”
“There were headache tablets and some sort of antacid hanging out of your bag the first time I saw you.”
“That’s not all that was hanging out,” she replied as the whole humiliating incident rose before her like
“That’s easy,” he said in a tone that made her wish for silk lingerie and a queen-sized bed.
“So you’re a steelworker,” she said primly, not sure how to answer his obvious innuendo.
“That’s right.”
“What do you build?”
“Lots of things. Buildings, ships. I worked on a bridge for the better part of a year.” He grimaced. “Hot work. Outside all the time, but I like being part of something permanent. You know? People will drive or walk or bicycle over that bridge for generations, and I helped build it.”
She nodded, but really she couldn’t relate. Her business was the opposite, style not substance, the advertisement not the product. Wait a minute. If he’d worked outside—
“Did the sun do that to your hair?”
He stuck a hand through his hair as though he’d forgotten he had any on his head. “Made it a bit lighter, I suppose.”
“You’d pay a few hundred to get that look in a top salon.”
He snorted. “You might.”
And she didn’t even have to ask about the tanning bed. She bet he had tan lines at mid-thigh, if he wore shorts to work, and at the sock mark because he’d wear work boots on the job. Her heart began to pound so hard she felt dizzy. It was real. It was all real. The muscles weren’t gym-designed but literally forged by steel. The hair, the tan—they were natural. He was real. She was so used to dealing with people who, while they may have been given a very nice package in which to hold their bones and blood, liked to help nature along a little. But this guy was the real thing, in a world where even the phrase the real thing was an advertising slogan.
“That’s me. Nothing very exciting. What about you then?”
“Me?”
She almost fell off her chair as she received her second powerful shock of the evening. When was the last time a man she was out with had asked about her? When had she been out with a man on a real honest-to-goodness date, come to think of it? It had to have been six months ago at least, and so forgettable she hadn’t repeated the experience until now. She’d been so immersed in work she’d forgotten—or maybe, a small voice whispered, she’d been using work to avoid the whole messy man/woman thing.
“I work too much,” she admitted.
And the pitiful truth was that work was becoming her life. Since she didn’t seem to have anything more pressing to take its place, her job was growing like some science fiction blob, oozing into more and more of her waking hours and taking over.
“So you’re a workaholic?”
She grimaced, hating the sound of that word and everything it implied, but feeling the need to be honest. “Yes.”
He nodded and seemed to ponder something. How he was going to get out of here gracefully—and fast, perhaps. Then she saw his lips curve ever so slightly as though he were enjoying a private joke. Great. Just great. No wonder she rarely dated. Provoking barely contained laughter in an attractive man wasn’t a big inducement to get back out there.
“Tell me something,” he said, his mouth serious again but amusement lurking deep in his eyes. “Have you got stomach trouble?”
She rubbed her middle, which was surprisingly calm considering she was out on a date and eating spicy food. “I get stress stomach now and again.”
He nodded and the single dimple creased. It would be devastatingly attractive if she didn’t suspect it was caused by him laughing at how pathetic she was.
“Headaches?”
She blinked so hard it hurt. “What, are you a steelworker by day and a doctor by night?”
“There were headache tablets and some sort of antacid hanging out of your bag the first time I saw you.”
“That’s not all that was hanging out,” she replied as the whole humiliating incident rose before her like
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