Page 42 of Deadly Attraction
Damn. She made work of grabbing her napkin from her lap and wiping off her mouth, her fingers.Stay professional.“The current situation has caused us to…” She groped for a neutral term, couldn’t find one that conveyed her meaning without it coming out wrong.
“You’ve grown on me,” she blurted.
His smile was slow, lazy. “You like me.”
“I find you quite annoying and contemptuous, but underneath your irascible attitude…yes, I like you. I think we could be friends, and if I’m your analyst, I can’t be your friend.”
The smile froze. He jabbed at his food. “I don’t need a therapist, so it’s cool.”
They ate for a few minutes in silence, and Emma let go a mental sigh. He was irritated at her again, but she had to be honest with herself, his irritation was easier to deal with than his sexy, probing gaze.
She’d learned long ago that the feeling of safety was a condition of the mind, not the body. Her mind was telling her she was safe. Physically, at least.
Emotionally…that was another story.
The damaged, vulnerable man across from her was working his way past her carefully constructed walls. Sure, she felt sympathy toward him, but this was more. This was…
Sex, her mind volunteered.Lust.
Ah, yes. Two wonderful human traits.
His physical attractiveness, his standoffishness, his skill with everything from a gun to a horse, was downright sexy as hell.
Her toes tingled, her cheeks felt warm. She stared at her plate, forking food into her mouth. She didn’t taste it. All she could think about was the light in his eyes, the teasing note in his voice. His very nearness at the small table filled the air with his personal, very potent brand of electricity. It stole around her in the dim shadows and tickled her skin. Desire sizzled and wove around her spine, rising up her back, brushing her neck.
The scrape of chair legs on the floor startled her.
“Good dinner,” Mitch said, crossing to the stove where he helped himself to seconds. “Want some more?”
He held up the slotted spoon over the skillet, looking back at her.
She’d imagined spending these nights leading up to Christmas alone. Eating alone, sleeping alone, grieving alone. Now here she was with a near stranger in her house, making himself at home, sitting at her table, saving her horse.
Protecting her.
She hadn’t realized how lonely she’d been. It was a gift, this simple act of sharing a meal with a man who understood her neuroses and who didn’t think less of her for admitting her failures.
It just so happened that this gift was smoking hot.
Surprisingly, she’d eaten all of her mashed potatoes. She nodded her head and smiled. Not the practiced smile—she couldn’t work that one up. “I’d love some more of your potatoes.”
The spoon lowered; his gaze on her sharpened. “There’s my girl.”
It was said softly, so softly she almost didn’t hear it. “Excuse me?”
He looked away and grabbed the bowl with the potatoes in it, bringing them to the table. “You’re a good cook, Emma.”
First name, again. He flip-flopped back and forth; perhaps the intimacy of the meal and candlelight had relaxed his boundaries.
Fiddling with her napkin, she focused on the mound of potatoes he plopped on her plate. “I like to cook, but I can’t take credit for these. You’re as handy in the kitchen as you are in the stable.”
He chuckled, returning to the stove and refilling his plate.
She hadn’t had a man wait on her in a long time. The kitchen, even in the shadowy light, seemed lighter, cheerful almost, regardless of the lack of light. Her heart pinched at the thought he wouldn’t be here much longer.
Mitch returned to the table, dug in. Emma picked up her fork and toyed with the potatoes.There’s my girl, he’d said. What did that mean?
She was hardly a girl, and the statement seemed quite out of context. She couldn’t help stealing a glance at his face and wondering: what made this man tick?
