Page 42 of 7 Days and 7 Nights

Dr. Olivia Moore lived her life in moderation. She kept her boat on an even keel. On those rare occasions when life made her boat heel to one side or another—her affair with Matt and her divorce from James being the most glaring examples—she found a way to right it, or at least pretend that she had.

Being trapped with Matt Ransom was like being sucked into the eye of a hurricane... and staying there. Indefinitely. While her sails flapped madly in the wind.

She had been right to be afraid of this promotion. She had too many unresolved feelings for Matt to come through this week unscathed. She should have kept her boat moored at the dock and refused to be pushed out to sea.

Olivia took a deep breath, opened the bedroom door, and stepped out. She found Matt chopping tomatoes in the kitchen and noticed that he, too, had spruced up for dinner. His hair was still wet from the shower, and his Levis, though well worn, were neatly pressed.

At her approach, Matt glanced up and smiled—a lazy flash of white teeth framed by dark skin. “You’re just in time.”

The sound of his voice sent her pulse jumping—not a welcome reaction for a woman who craved calm waters. When he bent back over the cutting board, she took advantage of the opportunity to observe him. Her gaze traveled over the thick dark hair shot through with gray, down the slanted cheekbones to the squared-off jaw. His shoulders were broad, his forearms muscled, and the hands that wielded the paring knife, strong and sure.

Matt Ransom was a pleasure to look at. But watching him dissect the hapless tomato, Olivia admitted that his movie star looks were only a small part of his appeal.

She was drawn by his simple air of confidence and the keen intellect that fueled his wicked sense of humor. He made her laugh and sputter with indignation. And while he often infuriated her, he never bored her.

“Are you going to stand there gawking, or are you going to get over here and set the table?” He added the chopped tomato to the ingredients in a large wooden bowl and drizzled oil and vinegar over the top.

Olivia inhaled the rich scents emanating from the pot on the stove. “Are we having spaghetti?”

“We are. Do you like Italian?”

“I’ve never met a region in Italy I didn’t like.”

“Smart woman.” He walked around the counter to fill two glasses with a deep red wine, and Olivia’s heart did an embarrassing flip-flop.

Pretending a nonchalance she didn’t feel, Olivia moved toward the silverware drawer. Trying to create distance where none existed, she hugged the counter, only to discover that opening the drawer put her directly in Matt’s path.

“ ’Scuse me.” Matt reached around her to check the sauce simmering on the stove.

Olivia sucked in her breath as his front brushed across her rear. “God, I feel like a sardine.”

“No, you don’t.” A glimmer of humor stole into his eyes and a dimple flashed at the corner of his mouth. He put both hands up in apology as they slid out of each other’s way, but he didn’t look particularly sorry. “Can you hand me a dish?”

Olivia passed one of the two he’d set out and watched him place a heaping mound of spaghetti with meat sauce in the center. When he reached for the garlic bread wrapped in foil, his finger made contact with the still-hot burner. “Damn.”

“Are you all right?”

"I’m fine.” With quick, efficient movements, he turned off the stove and stuck the singed finger in his mouth.

“Can I rub some butter on it?”

The look of surprise that flashed across his face made her want to laugh.

“Your finger, Matt. Can I grease it for you?”

“Oh.” His face fell. “My finger’s fine.”

“You say that now, but tomorrow morning I’ll be hearing from attorneys and nurses. Let me take a look.”

“Myfinger’sperfectly okay.” He didn’t appear to be in pain, but his voice sounded a bit strained.

Intrigued enough by his reaction to stop worrying about her own, she followed him to the refrigerator. There he retrieved a block of Parmesan cheese and backed out, coming to a stop only when his rear end pressed up against her crotch.

They both froze.

It would have been comical if her heart hadn’t been beating so hard. Matt turned around to face her—which didn’t slow her heartbeat one iota—and then he reached over her to set the Parmesan on the counter, casually caging her between his forearms in the process.

Trapped against the wall of his chest, she became a part of every breath he took. And when he dropped his hands to cup her buttocks and pull her tighter against him, she could feel the hammer of his heartbeat against hers.

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