Stirring Attraction by Sara Jane Stone Page B

Dominic’s deep voice called. “I saw your date arrive and then leave again without you.”
    She sighed and crossed the short entryway. Then she removed the chain, flipped the deadbolt, and opened the door a foot.
    â€œIs he coming back?” Dominic asked, eyeing the bottle in her hand.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œFamily emergency?”
    She shook her head from side to side.
    He folded his arms in front of his broad chest. The stance put his biceps on display, which was nice . . . but she really needed the wine first. Maybe after a glass or two, she would ask him to take off his shirt so that she could admire his muscles. She wouldn’t touch. That would remind her of the man attached to those biceps. The man she refused to forgive for staying away so long. Still, it would be nice to have a drink and look—­
    â€œLet me guess, Good Guy Ted took one look at your curled hair, freshly painted nails, and sinful dress, and he decided to make a run for it so that he didn’t embarrass himself? Looking at you, there’s no way he wanted to walk away.”
    â€œSinful dress?” she muttered. “It covers my arms and practically reaches my knee.”
    â€œBut you’re wearing it,” he said, making a show of looking her up and down.
    She shifted her weight from one bare foot to the other. The dress didn’t exactly hide the extra five pounds she hadn’t bothered to work off since her last jogging disaster. Her hips felt full beneath the fabric. Her breasts pressed up against her bra as if they might try to escape.
    The dress will hide your injuries.
    That had been her sole criteria when she’d plucked it from her closet, intending to wear it for Ted. But now that Dominic was scrutinizing her, she started thinking about how her body felt beneath the dress.
    Full. Hot. Needy.
    â€œAnd for the record,” he added, “it’s not the dress that I like, it’s what’s beneath.”
    â€œFine, you can come in,” she said as if every compliment had been a fishing line cast out hoping to reel in an invitation. The alternative—­that he meant every word, that he still thought she was beautiful . . . No, she’d rather pretend he’d been trying to secure an invite to sleep on her couch instead of in his car.
    â€œI was just about to pour a glass of wine and run the wildflowers that Ted bought at the grocery store down the garbage disposal,” she added as he stepped into the entryway.
    â€œAnd you wonder why I never brought you flowers,” he said, taking over the task of locking the door and replacing the chain.
    She held up the bottle. “Would you like a glass? I don’t have beer. And I have no idea how to mix a martini.”
    â€œHow about coffee?” He walked forward, glancing through the archway off the living room that led to the kitchen.
    â€œIt’s late.” She followed him into the bright yellow kitchen that made her think of sunshine and summer. Before summer had become connected to violence. “It might keep you up.”
    â€œThat’s the plan.”
    He headed straight for the coffeemaker as if he knew his way around. But that was impossible. She’d replaced the cabinets and countertops. Every appliance had been ripped out and redone. The construction ate up most of her savings, but it had been worth it to make the place her own, not a part leftover from her parents’ lives.
    â€œI’m not much use to you if I’m asleep,” he added. “Instead of keeping a lookout.”
    She exhaled as if she’d been holding that particular breath for a week, maybe more. He’d be out there tonight, watching over her. She would be safe for one more night.
    â€œWhat happened with your boyfriend?” he asked once the machine sputtered to life and started gurgling.
    She turned away, focusing on the drawer that held the wine opener. “He’s no longer mine.”