Page 26 of Carly's Heart

“Yes! Who doesn’t?” It was nice that he’d lightened the mood and shifted the conversation from her embarrassing slip, but she wished he hadn’t. She wanted to talk about kissing. Better still, she’d like to be kissing.

“Crazy people, that’s who.” He opened one of those fresh pizza crusts they sold at the deli and started spreading tomato sauce on it.

“Is that your mom’s tomato sauce? Can I help?”

“You can just sit and keep me company.” He paused and poured her glass of water. As he handed it to her, he said, “If you like Mom’s sauce, prepare to be amazed. I made this sauce myself, and honest to Pete, it’s twice as good as Mom’s.” He scooped up a bit of sauce with his baby finger and held it out to her.

The gesture was too intimate for two people trying to get to know each other better. She wasn’t sure why he offered his finger rather than a spoon. It felt like a test. A test of their attraction. She leaned forward and sucked the sauce off his finger without breaking eye contact. His eyes widened and his pupils dilated when she licked the last drop off her lips. “Delicious.”

His smile sent heat from her lips to her toes.

They stared at each other for several long minutes until it was either kiss him or leave the kitchen. She had a definite opinion on what she needed, and it wasn’t food. “Are you going to feed me or not?”

He blinked rapidly like he was clearing his mind. “It’ll go faster if you slice the mushrooms.”

She slid off the counter, brushing against him on her way down. The warmth of his body brought heat to her face. Jeepers, the man was lethal. She slid past him, her breasts barely brushing his arm. She wasn’t short, she was five-six, but next to him, she felt tiny and delicate. As much as she wanted to slip her arms around his waist and pull him closer, even in her semi-inebriated state, she knew that would be moving too fast.

“I can chop. Point me to a cutting board.” She paused. “Wait, you offered me non-sparkly clothing. I’d like to change out of this dress if you don’t mind.” She looked down at the mess she’d become. “I don’t know about the juice, but the glitter glue is water-based. No sense getting pizza sauce on it too. I should change, just in case I can salvage this thing.”

He stepped back slightly, tipped his head, and studied her from head to toe, his gaze leaving a trail of fire behind it. “I can get you clothes.” He cleared his throat with a harsh swallow. “But I have to say, you look incredible and I’m sorry I didn’t get to dance with you tonight.”

He turned away abruptly and gestured for her to follow him down the hallway. They passed what looked like a den and a bathroom before entering the room with the night light and a king sized, four poster bed stained a deep cherry color.

“Is this your room?”

“Yes, and I have a nightlight because my cats,” he waved toward two black and white felines sleeping dead center on the bed, “drive me crazy when there’s no light.”

“Aw. You’re so sweet.”

He opened the closet doors and a light flipped on, illuminating a room-sized closet. The man had a thing for motion-activated lights for sure. “Help yourself. There are sweats and T-shirts on the shelf. Take whatever you need.” He walked out of the room leaving her staring at the empty doorway.

“Huh. That was odd.” She entered the closet and stopped dead. It wasn’t a closet; it was an eight-foot square room. She’d lived in places with bedrooms smaller than this. The space was enormous. He had six piles of clothing and a few things on hangers, mostly plaid western shirts. There was one lone suit, four white dress shirts, and three neckties. The rest of the space was empty. She could hang all her clothing and all of Layla’s clothing in here, three times over. He must be expecting to marry a fashionista.

She slipped out of her dress and hung it in one of several empty sections. She found a pair of shorts with a drawstring waist and a T-shirt that said, Cowboys do it in the Saddle. It was the top shirt on the pile and despite its slightly suggestive message, she grabbed it, rather than digging through the rest.

She pulled her phone from the special holster on her leg. She hadn’t wanted to carry a bag, but she also didn’t want to be out of contact in case there was an emergency with Layla. She punched in her ex’s number and shot off a text letting him know that the wedding was over and asking how Layla was.

As she waited for an answer, she set the garter on the shelf and went into the ensuite bathroom she’d noticed earlier. She glanced at herself in the mirror. “Yikes!” She had mascara sliding down to her mouth. The rest of her makeup had vanished. Her hair was a total disaster. She’d expected it was bad, but she had no idea. She looked like a crazed raccoon. “Why didn’t he tell me?” She covered her face with her hands. “Ugh. I tried to kiss him. It’s a wonder he didn’t run screaming instead of just backing away.”

She rooted through the cupboard until she found a dark-colored facecloth. Quickly, she washed away the damage. She let her hair down. Using his brush, she smoothed her wavy locks as best she could. Despite the pile of hairspray that the salon had added, it frizzed up wildly. She used the hair elastic that she’d just removed and slicked her hair into a low ponytail. At least she didn’t look like something out of a horror movie.

The tantalizing scent of fried onions tickled her nose and urged her back to the kitchen.

“That smells amazing. I thought we were having pizza?”

“I caramelize them first. Then add pineapple, mushrooms, and chopped cooked chicken.”

“Okay,” she tried not to sound dubious.

“I’ve never seen you refuse to eat anything. I know you don’t have allergies. This is a favorite combination of mine. Give me the benefit of the doubt, okay?” He turned off the stove and spread the onions on the sauce. He’d chopped the mushrooms and chicken while she was changing. It must have taken her longer than she realized.

“Sorry about being such a disaster earlier.” Heat rose in her face, but she forced herself to lean against the counter and look up at him.

“Everyone deserves to be less than their best on occasion. You had a crappy day, and you didn’t get to eat. I’d be less than perfect in the same position.”

No, he wouldn’t. She’d seen him flinging manure, up to his knees in mud, and covered in tractor grease. Each and every time, he’d looked good enough to eat. There was something about a man who wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty that was too sexy for words, and in Birch’s case, that appeal was triple most men.

She was attracted to him like nobody else. Even her ex hadn’t stirred her libido like this. She was thirty-five years old, and it took a rancher like Birch to get her hormones pumping, when all her life, she thought she liked the bookish type.

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