Page 175 of Holding On To Good

“You don’t have to do this,” she blurted.

“This?”

“This,” she repeated, gesturing wildly at the table. “The food. The wine.” She made a flapping motion in his general direction. “Your clothes.”

He glanced down at himself. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”

“You look nice.” It was practically a wail. And way more dramatic and freaked out than it needed to be. God. The man was in a gray V-neck and jeans, not a tuxedo. But he wore the hell out of those jeans and that T-shirt clung to his broad chest and wide shoulders in an extremely you-know-you-want-me way. “And you smell good.”

So good, she wasn’t sure how she managed to refuse his kiss not once, but twice.

So good, she wasn’t sure why she wasn’t kissing the hell out of him right now.

“You’re upset that I showered and put on clean clothes?”

“Yes. No.” She blew out a breath that ruffled her bangs. “You made your mom’s lasagna.”

“You love my mom’s lasagna.”

“It’s not the lasagna,” she insisted. “It’s what it represents.”

“What does it represent?”

“A special occasion. You only make your mom’s lasagna on Verity’s birthday, Christmas Eve, when Silas comes home, and when you want to impress a woman.”

“Not true.” He poured wine into both glasses. Handed her one, then picked up the other. Leaned back against the table and took a sip before admitting, “I’ve never made lasagna for another woman. I’ve never cooked anything for another woman.”

She gaped at him. “Never?” He shook his head. Her eyes narrowed. “Not even Miranda?”

“Miranda and I were kids. Our parents still did our cooking until we went to college. And then we were both busy, and I was busy with the team…” He shrugged. “Anytime we had a free evening, she wanted to go out.”

The truth of it whirled around in Willow’s mind. He’d never cooked for Miranda. Had never put in the time to set a pretty table or get the wine she liked or make his mom’s lasagna. Not for Miranda. Not for any other woman.

Only her.

A flush infused Willow, so quick and hot, she figured she was probably glowing with pleasure.

She squashed it.

Sometimes a girl had to be ruthless to protect her heart.

“Don’t,” she said, and what she’d meant to be a strong, strident command, came out an unsteady whisper. She took a sip of her wine. Cleared her throat. “Don’t try to… to… woo me.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t need it. I don’t want it.”

She wanted to keep their relationship hidden. Needed it to be tucked away in a vault, guarded by all her rules and guidelines.

She needed to be in control of this.

“What if I do?” he asked.

“What?”

“What if I want to show the woman I’m sleeping with that I care about her?”

“I already know you care about me,” she assured him quickly, lest he decide to blurt out a few more of his hidden truths. The ones designed to knock her entire world off its axis.

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