Page 101 of Love on the Byline

Her eyes were on him, her expression open and full ofinterest.

He wanted nothing more than to lean across the counter andkiss her, to feel her full lips pressed against his. But he couldn’t.Shouldn’t.

He cleared his throat. “It’s nearly ready. I just need tosear the chicken.”

“I could do that.”

“No, I’ve got it. Do you want to change?”

Blake looked down at her dress. He had removed her shoes inthe car, and she seemed surprised by what she was wearing.

“God, I totally do. I grabbed some clean clothes when I wenthome, but my bag is in my car. The only thing I have in the pool house isswimwear.”

Ollie wouldn’t mind her changing into that. At all. But hewas a gentleman.

“Hang on.” He washed and dried his hands before running tohis room to grab her a t-shirt and a pair of his lounge pants. She’d drown inthem, but she’d at least be more comfortable.

As he jogged back to the kitchen, he told himself it hadnothing at all to do with wanting to see her in his clothes.

“Thanks.” Blake took the shirt from him and held it up.“Really?”

“I get a lot of free merch.”

She inspected the tee, one eyebrow raised. “I’m not sure howI feel about wearing a shirt with Bran’s face on it.”

Ollie snorted. “He’s one of eleven people, and he’s way inthe back. You can pretend it’s Regé-Jean Page, if it helps.”

“Who?”

Shaking his head, he handed her the sleep pants. “Stillstubbornly resistant to pop culture, I see. Go change so I can feed you.”

“God, yes. I don’t know why, but I’m starving.” She startedtowards the powder room.

“That tends to happen when you subsist on trail mix snackpacks and granola bars,” he called after her.

“Stop snooping in my stuff,” she called back.

He grinned.

22

Ollie was uncharacteristically giddy. He didn’t remember thelast time he’d smiled so much. He pulled the ten-inch skillet from the potrack.

The house may have been pretentious, but it waswell-appointed and didn’t feel like a museum like so many others of its sizeand opulence. He wouldn’t admit it to Bran, the price was still outrageous, buthe could see the actor living there.

He was pouring olive oil into the hot pan when Blake returned.

“Your legs are obscenely long. I had to fold the cuffs threetimes to keep from tripping over them.”

He turned to grin at her but felt it slide off his face,replaced by heat. He’d expected the clothing to be loose on her, baggy even,but she filled out the fabric in a way that had him forgetting his own name.

“Is that supposed to smoke like that?”

Or how to cook. “Dammit.” H spun to the stove and removedthe pan from the flame, turning down the heat.

“You must be tired, too.”

“I’m tired every day,” he said, sprinkling the chicken withsea salt. He ground some fresh black pepper over the flesh before gentlyplacing it in the pan. It began to sizzle immediately.

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