Page 18 of Chasing Dreams
“But—”
“But what?”
“But what about tonight?”
“You’ll stay here.”
She looked at him curiously, but she didn’t argue. He’d never sleep if he had to worry about a helpless female exposed to the elements while he was tucked snugly in this house that had room for both of them.
She had salad plates on the table and wine poured when he returned from his shower and sat.
“I assume you like this dressing since it’s all there was.” She sprinkled a little on his lettuce. “I was surprised at how much food you had for someone who doesn’t cook.”
He studied her moving competently around his kitchen, and didn’t know how he felt about having her there. She disturbed him in more ways than one. “I didn’t say I don’t cook. I said I don’t like to.”
“What do you do in there all day?” she asked.
He took a bite of the salad, and answered after he swallowed. “I debug programs for software companies. Sometimes I beta test.”
“What’s that?”
“Play with programs before they get on the market.”
“You do that from here?”
He nodded. “I download the files, unless they’re paranoid and then they express-mail drives to my box in Gunnison. I drive down a couple of times a week and grab perishables at the same time.”
“What about during the winter? The kid who drove me up says it gets nasty.”
“I have a four-wheel drive. And a snowmobile.”
“That sounds like fun.”
He’d never really thought of it as fun, but he guessed he did enjoy riding it. He shrugged.
“How do you like your steak?” she asked, peering into the broiler oven.
Her jeans fit snugly over her curvy backside, the faded denim showing off the length and shapeliness of her legs and sparking his imagination. “Medium-rare.”
“I knew you’d say that.”
“Sure, you’re psychic, right?”
The pleasure that had been evident on her face a moment before disappeared. “No. I’m nothing. At least that’s what the tests show.”
He picked up his fork and twirled it between his fingers. “I’m not used to this.”
She sat across from him at the small pine table, her sleek hair tucked behind one ear, and folded her hands in her lap. “Did I do something wrong?”
He shook his head. There hadn’t been a time since he was young that he’d entered his home and smelled supper cooking. He wasn’t used to someone caring what he ate or how he preferred his steak. “I don’t do this,” he said, knowing his words were inadequate. “I don’t make polite chitchat.”
A blush rose in her cheeks. Her gaze dropped to the napkin beside her plate and remained there.
He didn’t know how to act around her. He wasn’t a people person. He resented having to call upon manners and polite conversation in his own home. This was his sanctuary away from the entanglements of civilization, and he didn’t want to deal with any encroachment, not even hers.
Getting up, she placed the steaks on their plates. The potato she set before him was still in its skin, but the fluffy insides had been mashed and dotted with chive.
She sat back down and, without a word, started eating.
