Page 21 of Anything but Mine

“Thanks.” He looked around at all the wood. He took for granted how wide open the space was. The back of his house was a wall of windows blacked out with the inky darkness of the woods that framed his property.

The windows were tinted against the intruding eye of lenses, but they still found a way to get pictures when they really wanted one. Tonight, he hoped they would wander off.

Logan opened the wine and took her glass to fill, keeping one for himself. He took a sip and smiled at the crisp pear notes. Sometimes cheap wine was just what you needed after a long day. “It’s good.”

She lifted the glass and took a long, slow swallow, her topaz eyes sharp and intelligent above the rim. “You’re bringing me unending pain, Logan King,” she said into the glass. She took another sip, then lowered the glass to the counter.

He skirted the edge, careful not to touch her. Not even to come into her oxygen space. If he wrote—when he wrote—a song about her, he already knew the title. Temptation. “I seriously doubt that.” He turned on the oven to preheat, then lit the gas burner to heat the pan. He pulled out the salad fixings. “How are you with a knife?”

She washed her hands, then moved to the cutting board. “Sous chef of champions.”

“My kinda girl.”

Knife in hand, she started dicing the heirloom tomatoes he’d left out. “Why am I here?”

“We’re going to be working pretty closely for the next few days. I figured we could get back on even ground.”

She scooped the red and yellow tomatoes into the bowl of lettuce. With effortless skill, she hacked off the crunchy skin of the red onion until its hearty scent filled the space. “Even ground includes chicken and a telephoto lens?”

He sighed. “They’re still out there, huh?”

“They didn’t exactly play the incognito card. Especially when a guy with improbable black hair jumped in front of my car as I was coming up your street.”

“Fucking hell.” He gripped the counter for a count of five, then blew out a breath. The more press, the more chances that she’d show her face sooner.

There was no changing the situation, and in turn there was no way he was going to let that woman ruin the evening. He set the chicken breasts into the pan. The hiss of meat on cast iron filled the silence as she chopped. He finished his glass of wine and went for another.

“I’m not sure how you stop yourself from hitting them with your truck.”

He choked on his sip. “Jail time.”

She looked up from her slicing with a half grin. “Bet you’d be just as famous behind bars.”

At least the reaming he got in jail would be honest. Between the concert promoters, fanclub responsibilities, and reporters he lost track of the different flavors of lube. “I look good in orange, actually.”

Her grin slid into a wide smile that chipped away at his resolve. Asking her here had not been one of his finer moves, especially if he was trying to keep it platonic.

She fanned slices of onion over the top of the spinach and leafy green mix. “No other veggies?”

“No. I need to go to the store.”

“Like you go yourself.”

“Mrs. Nelson knows I like salad stuff.” He patted his stomach. “Not as easy to keep the gut at bay these days.” He glanced at his watch and turned back to the chicken, flipping them to sear the other side.

When he turned back around, her glass was at her mouth again and her eyes were on him.

“What?”

She put her glass down. “Not sure how I started off the day with a Pop Tart and ended it with wine and one of the richest men in the northern hemisphere cooking me chicken.”

“I’m just a guy, Izzy.”

She made a low humming sound and took the salad bowl to the fridge. She peeked around the door. “Having kabobs on the grill tomorrow, huh?”

“Angling for an invite?”

She tucked the salad bowl on a shelf and shut the door. “Nope. Two dinners and I usually end up on at least third base.”

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