Page 19 of The Billionaire in Her Bed

She stood in front of the stove with her back to him, stirring a large pot of what he deduced was spaghetti sauce and sneaking glances at a tablet propped up on the tiny square of countertop next to her. Gone were the yoga pants and stained T-shirt. In their place was a gray turtleneck sweater dress that followed her curves like a Formula 1 racer. A pair of black suede thigh-high boots completed the ensemble. He couldn’t see her face, but her hair was gathered into a sexy, messy mass on top of her head.

He whistled. “You clean up nice.”

“Thanks.” Over her shoulder, she shot him a smile that lit up her face and sucker punched him in the gut. It wasn’t only her hair and clothes she’d taken the time to fix. He didn’t know much about makeup, but whatever she’d done to her face had the effect of bringing out the gold flecks in her eyes and making her already full lips look fuller. “I wish I could say the same about you, but you’re going to get pretty dirty under there.”

She jerked her head toward the sink. He put down the toolbox and bags and bent to open the cabinet. “I like getting dirty.”

He thought he heard her mutter “don’t I know it” before he flipped onto his back and poked his head under the sink to reassess the damage. “Can you hand me the pliers from my toolbox? And I’ll need a pot or bucket to catch the water when I take this thing apart.”

“Sure. Let me turn down the sauce.”

“It smells great.”

“Thanks. Did you know pasta was invented by the Chinese, and people ate it for thousands of years before anyone thought to add tomato sauce?”

His lips twitched. She was a babbler. Good sign. That meant she was nervous around him, and she wouldn’t be nervous if she wasn’t interested. “I had no idea.”

She knelt beside him, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of creamy thigh over the top of her boots. He willed his dick to stand down and focused on the delicate hand holding out a wrench to him. Their fingers brushed as he took it and then the stockpot she offered, and for a second time in as many minutes he fought to control his raging hormones.

“I’ve got to take care of dinner,” she said, the rasp in her voice telling him she wasn’t unaffected, either. “Will you be okay without my help?”

“I’ll be fine.” A little space was probably a good thing. Much more of this and her pipe would stay broken and they’d never get to the food. “Go.”

Unlike his new furniture, with its incomprehensible instructions, this job was straightforward, and he was able to replace the pipe in less than an hour, even with Brooke bustling around the kitchen, distracting him with her fresh, fruity scent, off-key humming, and occasional chitchat.

“All done,” he called, his head and torso still in the cupboard. “Turn on the tap and let her rip.”

“You might want to get out of there first,” she suggested.

He let out a derisive snort. “Don’t trust my handiwork?”

“It’s your funeral.”

He heard her fiddle with the faucet, and the water started flowing.

“Dry as the Sahara.” He slid out from under the sink and sat up. “Mission accomplished.”

“Thanks again.” She blushed and turned her attention back to the pot of sauce simmering on the stove, and he got the feeling accepting help didn’t come easily to her. “Dinner will be ready in about ten minutes if you want to wash up. I put out a fresh washcloth and towel for you in the bathroom.”

“Sounds good.” He put his tools back in the box and swept the mess he’d made into one of the empty Home Depot bags. “Where’s your garbage?”

She inclined her head toward a stainless-steel trash can next to the refrigerator. He tossed the bag inside and headed for the bathroom. When he emerged a few minutes later, hands scrubbed and nails as free from grease as he could get them, Brooke was setting the cafe table that served as her dinette set.

Eli smoothed down his rumpled Henley the best he could and crossed over to her. “Anything I can do?”

“You can open a bottle of wine.” She held up two bottles. “I’ve got red and white. Pick your poison.”

“Red.” He took the bottle of cabernet sauvignon she offered, making sure their fingers didn’t make contact this time so he wouldn’t be tempted to clear off the table she’d set and take her right then and there. “Where’s your corkscrew?”

“Top drawer next to the sink.”

He squeezed past her to get the bottle opener, struck by the intimacy of it all. And not because they were jockeying for position in her tiny galley kitchen. It was more how, despite their close confines, they worked together with an easy familiarity, like an old married couple.

The thought should’ve terrified him. It didn’t.

Weird.

“Find it?” she asked, snapping him out of his reverie.