Page 42 of Forbidden Confessions: Vol. 2
As soon as the police leave, Rush turns to me. “You okay?”
“I’m not thrilled, but I’ll be fine. Thanks for staying with me during all this. I didn’t mean to eat up your Friday evening.”
He waves me away. “Tell me what you want to do next, stay here tonight? Or come home with me?”
4
The only man I’ve ever wanted is asking me if I’d like to spend the night at his place? If we’d be naked and doing the mattress tango, I’d love that. But Rush is just being a nice guy. A concerned co-worker. I need to stop wishing for more.
That’s not easy. I still get the same butterflies and flushes of heat I got years ago when I was the forgettable gawky girl who shocked him with an out-of-the-blue kiss. But I guess I’m still forgettable if all he wants to do to me is babysit.
“I appreciate the offer, but I can’t leave. I’ve only had Kitty Pie for a few days, and she’s proven she’s a destructive force, especially at night if she gets too bored. I have to stay here.”
He levels me with a skeptical glance. “Will you really be able to sleep by yourself tonight?”
No. Whoever’s been in my house obviously knows how to bypass my locks and my security system. Knowing that, how much could I possibly sleep? Sure, I have a gun and I’m decent in target practice…but the idea of actually using it on a real human gives me pause.
“I don’t know.” I look away.
Rush tips my chin up until I’m looking at him. “What if I stayed here with you?”
I have no place for a man Rush’s size to sleep. The lone spare bedroom I turned into an office for homework, and my couch is more like a love seat. But he’s searched the place, so he knows that. Just like he knows I’ve got a roomy queen-size bed…
But he’s not interested in sharing it with me.
“Maybe I could make you dinner to thank you for your help, and afterward we can see if that makes sense, okay?”
“Sure. Whatever you want.”
How about you hold me down, kiss me breathless, and take my V-card?
Instead, I smile. “I appreciate it. It’s nearly eight o’clock. What sounds good for dinner?”
“Whatever you feel like making. I can’t remember the last time someone cooked for me.”
Seriously? He doesn’t have dates every night of the week?
He probably does. They’re just too busy to eat. Duh.
“You look like one of those super-healthy types who only eats tofu and vegetables. I was going to make fried chicken and mashed potatoes with biscuits?—”
“If you do, I’ll love you forever.”
I laugh. Big, bad Rush has a sense of humor? “Southern cooking it is. Beer?”
He raises a brow at me. “You drink it?”
“No. I keep a few bottles in case my neighbor comes over on weekends to watch some sporting event only my satellite provider gets.”
Rush saunters into the kitchen. “Lucky guy.”
“No, Mrs. Crafton is an eighty-year-old widow whose passions in life include college football, the Westminster Dog Show, Say Yes to the Dress, and beer.”
He laughs, a rich, wonderful sound dripping with baritone and testosterone. “She sounds like a character.”
Now, just like the first time I laid eyes on him, he makes my everything flutter. I turn to the refrigerator and pull out the package of chicken. I won’t have leftovers, but I’ll have Rush at my table. That’s way better.
Cool your jets. Otherwise, he’ll figure out he makes you gaga.
