Page 101 of 10 Rings I Hate About You
My head snapped up. “I never said that.”
“Now, Robert, stop it. Marc, ignore him. Get the salad out and?—”
The doorbell rang and my chest tightened.
“Is that her?” Mom’s attempt at discretion lasted approximately zero seconds.
“Yes, which means I have to go.” I tugged at a loose string on the apron.
“Have fun, sweetheart. And just see where things go. I’ve always liked Delaney, and if you two?—”
“Love you. Night.” I hung up before she could finish that sentence.
I drew in a slow breath. Rolled my shoulders back. Thought about the eighty-five-pound Labrador who’d tried to take my hand off during a nail trim last Tuesday without so much as rattling me.
I headed through the open space into the small entryway and then opened the door.
My brain executed a full system shutdown. She was breathtaking.
Delaney was wearing faded, form-fitting jeans that skimmed her thick curves in a way that made it genuinely difficult to maintain eye contact and a burgundy sweater that hung loose off one shoulder. That one bare shoulder undid me a little—the freckles scattered along the curve of it, the ones I’d noticed a long time ago and had been steadfastly ignoring ever since. The desire to press my lips there to trace each one surfaced before I could stop it.
Her eyes crinkled at the corner as she smiled at me.
I’d known Delaney Hart for the better part of twenty years. I’d watched her grow from the sharp-tongued girl who argued with me about everything into the sharp-tongued woman who still argued with me. But standing there on my porch, smiling in a way that suggested she was actually glad to be here—that did something to me I wasn’t prepared for.
“You look …” I could barely form words.
“Presentable, I hope.” She tilted her head. “I wasn’t sure what to wear.”
I wanted to say a dozen things. None of them were appropriate. “You lookbeautiful,”I said instead, stepping back to let her in. “Thank you for coming tonight, Delaney.”
Her cheeks flushed. She glanced away, just for a beat, as though she needed a second to collect herself. That oddly steadied me.
“I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in ages,” she said, crossing the threshold and looking around with wide eyes. “So maybe I’m getting the better end of this deal.”
She stepped farther into the entryway, and her gaze dropped to my chest. A slow smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Her hand stretched out, a single finger ran down the center of mychest, her eyes sparkled with humor. “I wouldn’t have thought you owned an apron, but you’re making it work.”
I glanced down. I’d forgotten to take the damn thing off.
I pulled it over my head in one motion and she laughed—a real one, the kind that took over her whole face.
“It’s no tux,” she said, her eyes trailing down over my Henley, focusing on my rolled up sleeves. There was a fraction of a pause where her gaze caught on my forearms before she dragged it back up to mine. “But this’ll do.”
There was heat in her eyes when they met mine. Not anything over-the-top—it was quieter than that, and when she seemed to recognize her reaction, she immediately tried to temper it.
“You have a lovely home,” she said.
“Thank you. It took a while to renovate it to my specifications. But I love it now.”
In the kitchen, I reached for the bottle of white wine. The familiar ritual of uncorking a bottle gave me something to do with my hands, which was useful because my hands were very interested in finding other things to do.
“As much as I enjoy watching you serve me,” she said, the words carrying the edge of a tease. “I can help, too.”
I went still for a half-second. The phraseserve medidn’t mean anything. She was being funny. She was always being funny. Yet I couldn’t stop the thoughts of me “serving” her pleasure until her legs shook and she screamed my name.
Fuck.
I made myself keep moving, gesturing to the two small salad bowls on the counter.
