Page 18 of Stirring Attraction (Second Shot 2)
She headed for the bottle-lined rack that she’d added to her parents’ living room after her mother passed away and her father moved out. The top shelf held a selection of Oregon pinot noirs from a “girlfriends” winery tour she’d taken with some of her fellow teachers.
Those same friends had slipped away, retreating into their own busy lives after she’d been attacked. Oh, they’d helped at first, dropping off food and staying to talk for a while. But they’d stopped calling as the summer went on and she stayed at home, more and more convinced someone would hurt her.
Except Noah and Josie. They’d practically broken down the door to talk to her. But they hadn’t wanted to make small talk. Noah and Josie had offered her a job. They’d begged for her help. Pour beer. Open wine bottles. Offer shots. Maybe mix a simple drink or two while Noah’s regular part-time bartender took a two-week trip to Hawaii. Not one mention of tossing Dominic into the mix.
She withdrew a bottle and headed for the archway leading to the kitchen.
Knock. Knock.
She froze, her grip tightening around the bottle’s neck. She could use it to hit the person on the other side of the door over the head . . .
“I know you’re in there,” 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.
“Is he coming back?” Dominic asked, eyeing the bottle in her hand.
“No.”
“Family 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—
“Let 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.”
“Sinful dress?” she muttered. “It covers my arms and practically reaches my knee.”
“But 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.
“And for the record,” he added, “it’s not the dress that I like, it’s what’s beneath.”
“Fine, 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.
“I 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.
“And 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.”
“How about coffee?” He walked forward, glancing through the archway off the living room that led to the kitchen.
“It’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.”
“That’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.
“I’m not much use to you if I’m asleep,” he added. “Instead of keeping a lookout.”
