Page 10 of One Bad Idea
Slowly, he did and then smiled when I stepped back, more carefully this time, and muttered a disgruntled thanks, along with an obviously false claim that I really hadn't needed his help anyway.
To my infinite surprise, he didn't argue. Instead, all he said was, "If you wanna look, be my guest."
My gaze dipped to his abs. He was standing upright again, and his bare torso looked annoyingly fine in spite of the fact that it was now slightly marred by shiny smudges of what could only be bacon grease.
Unfortunately for me, the new sheen only further accented the lines and ridges of his flat, defined stomach. I felt my tongue dart out between my lips as I stared stupidly across the counter. And then, with a little gasp of horror, I sucked in my tongue, realizing far too late that he meant that I could look for Cassidy – not for signs of bacon on his body.
And now, I'd been caught staring. As heat flooded my face, I told myself that it was surely was the thought of bacon, andnothim, that had me licking my proverbial chops.
It wasn'tthatfar-fetched. I mean, seriously, I hadn't eaten since Nashville. And in truth, I had a real thing for bacon.
Was it any wonder that I'd be drooling at the sight of, well,nothim, that was for sure.
He asked, "You hungry?"
Absently, I mumbled, "What?"
His mouth twitched at the corners. "If you want, you can have my sandwich."
Slowly, I looked down at the mess on the floor. It wasn't a sandwich anymore. I didn't know what it was, but Ididknow that it wasn't anything I'd ever put in my mouth.
I looked up and gave him my sweetest smile. "No. That'sallyours. I insist."
Without waiting for his reply, I turned away, more carefully now, and picked my way out of the kitchen, trying like hell to ignore the fact that I could hear his footsteps following directly behind me.
Just outside the kitchen door, I paused in mid-step and looked down at my sneakers. I frowned, considering what might be stuck to the bottom of them.
The house was clean and nice, well, except for the kitchen anyway, and I hated the thought of tracking sandwich goo all over the place.
As my face flooded with new embarrassment, I made a move to slip off my shoes, only to pause in mid-motion when I heard a low chuckle behind me.
I whirled to look. "What's so funny?"
"You."
I glared up at him. "Oh yeah? Why's that?"
He glanced down at my sneakers. "Because it's a little late for that, don’t you think?"
"Late for what?"
He gave me a crooked smile. "Worrying about messes."
The comment grated on me – and not only because it was true. It was because, somehow, the guy had known exactly what I'd been thinking.
I squared my shoulders and said, "I just don’t want to slip, that's all." And then, with a look of defiance, I deliberately shoved off my shoes and kicked them to the side.
The guy spared them half a glance. "That'll show me."
Whether it would or not, I didn't care. In truth, I was mostly surprised that I hadn't flung both of them in his face, because he definitely had it coming.
I spent the next half-hour stomping through the house – well, as much as Icouldstomp in just my socks. The whole time, the guy followed after me, making smart-ass comments and refusing to take any of this seriously.
For what felt like the millionth time, he said, "Is that her?"
Unlike the first few times, I didn't bother turning to look, because if I did, he'd only shrug and say something stupid like, "Nah, just a lamp."
Or a chair.
