Page 43 of When Sparks Fly

It feels silly to wait for him to knock when I can clearly see him—something he knows given the open living room blinds. So I open the front door, but leave the storm door closed until he reaches the porch before pushing it open wide. “You’re late.”

He stops in front of me, his gaze taking in my face. I suspect he has on a fresh shirt, but his jeans and boots are dusty, hinting at a busy day. I wonder if someone else would be put off by him not changing completely. I find his realness appealing.

His signature hat rests atop his head, somewhat shielding his eyes in shadow. Warmth pours through my body.

“Then let this be my first apology offering.” From his side, he produces a square, plastic container I hadn’t realized he was carrying before. I blame it on the dark and not the sheer effort of taking my eyes off his own.

“What’s that?”

He holds it out without responding. A single piece of New York Style cheesecake sits perfectly in the container. My eyes fly up to his. “Cheesecake?”

“I assumed traditional was the way to go on flavor. Unless it's too soon."

Words leave me. I shake my head and step back, silently inviting him inside as. Did he really hold onto that tiny piece of information? Something I shared in an emotional fit?

He eyes the foyer, seemingly searching for something, then glances toward the porch swing. His skin is warm as he takes one of my hands and gives me a gentle tug. It’s reminiscent of how he led me at the bar and I’m grateful there’s no awkwardness.

The storm door rattles its close as I follow him toward the swing, where he eyes me and jerks his chin for me to sit.

There’s an ease to our interactions, his directions. They’re sure, but never pressured.

“I need to grab a fork. Unless that’s for later.” I grin at him.

His eyes dart to my mouth then return to mine. “Sit.” There’s a hint of a smile on his lips.

Curling my legs in front of me and leaning my back against the arm of the swing, I face the space I’ve left open for him.

With his now free hand, he pulls a black, plastic fork from his back pocket. I gape before slamming my mouth shut. He sits casually, spreading his feet wide, before opening the lid of the container, stabbing the fork into the center of the slice, and passing the tray to me. Draping his left arm along the back of the swing, he gently rocks us as he takes me in.

“Are we sharing?”

He smirks. “Nope. That’s all for you, Firecracker.”

I raise an eyebrow in question at the nickname, but then deliver the first bite of cheesecake to my mouth and my curiosity is forgotten. It’s been too long since I’ve had this simple pleasure and a tiny moan slips free. His eyes narrow. I pretend not to notice and go in for another bite.

I couldn’t bring myself to gorge myself on the whole cheesecake Nana made. I donated it, along with some of the other untouched food, and the stupid flowers I was happy to orphan, to an assisted living home on my way out of town Monday.

His eyes bore into mine, stoking the fire inside. My nipples peak and I’m reminded I’m not wearing a bra. If he notices, he doesn’t show it. I can’t imagine he doesn’t. The girls are good-sized and the shirt of my matching loungewear set is snug.

A couple of his fingers begin to brush swirling patterns on my shoulder. The sensation is both soothing and enticing, and my eyes flutter before I compose myself.

“How long are you in town this time?” His voice is softer, though I’m learning he doesn’t ask me what he wants to know. Again, I feel this is outside of his personality which I assume to be direct.

“Tomorrow afternoon. I’ll be back this weekend.”

“That doesn’t work for me.” There it is.

A startled laugh breaks free of my throat. “Oh, it doesn’t?” One side of his mouth kicks up. “What are we going to do about that?” I pop another piece of cheesecake in my mouth.

He zeroes in on my mouth and heat shoots to my core. “Stay until Tuesday.”

“Why?” Who am I kidding? I’m not going to tell him no.

“So I can see you tomorrow.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “I dare say you’re developing an addiction, Cowboy. It’s wholly unhealthy.”

He grins. “One more hit.”

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