Savor

“I don’t know. I’m not even sure what I’d want.” He rubs his hand along his jaw. I can hear the rasp of stubble against his palm, and my knees literally go weak. I would love to know what that slightly rough face would feel like against mine, or even better—how it would feel between my thighs.

Thank goodness I’m sitting down, or I swear I’d collapse because my legs are so wobbly.

“I’ll take care of everything,” I say, my mind scrambling as I stand. “I’ll order some food and deliver it to you before I leave for the night.” I start to leave the office, wondering if he prefers Italian or Chinese when he says my name in that deep, delicious voice of his.

I stop and slowly turn to find him looking at me, his expression one of pure gratitude. “Thanks a lot for taking care of me these last few days. I know I’ve kept you far busier than you should be.”

Smiling, I try to ignore the mass of butterflies fluttering in my stomach at his words. “You’re welcome. And it’s my job, right? I’m just doing what I’m supposed to.”

“Not necessarily a part of your formal job description, but I suppose.” He smiles. “You should join me.” At my confused look he explains further. “For dinner.”

“Oh, I-I couldn’t.” I shake my head at the same exact moment my stomach decides to grumble loudly, and I rest my hand over my front, horribly embarrassed. I can feel my cheeks heat, and I’m tempted to duck and run.

But I stand my ground instead, trying to pretend it didn’t happen.

Soft laughter escapes him as he quirks an eyebrow at me. “Not hungry, huh?”

“Fine. I’m starving.” I roll my eyes. Are we flirting? It feels like it but . . . not. Ugh, he’s so confusing. “But I’m sure you don’t want to eat with me. We spend enough time together, don’t you think?”

“Do you want to eat with me?” he asks, his dying laughter replaced with this foreign gleam in his eyes. “I don’t mind if you don’t. Come on, Bryn. Let’s have dinner together at my desk. It’ll be exciting.” He laughs. “We can go over the caterer menu one more time. Exciting right?”

“All right,” I agree, trying my best to stomp down the giddy sensation that wants to take over but it’s so hard. It’s bubbling to the surface ready to burst out all over Matt. “Let me find a restaurant. What do you prefer, Italian or Chinese?”

“Italian, of course,” he says, and I’m thankful.

I prefer Italian too—especially the DeLuca variety.

“DAMN, THIS IS good,” Matt says as he eats another forkful of lobster ravioli. “And you said the restaurant is nearby?”

Enraptured with watching him eat, I nod silently, but realize he’s not even paying attention to me, so I answer, “Yes, they’re not too far from here. Little place that doesn’t look like much but is packed inside.”

So packed, I drew quite a few stares as I went to the register and purchased the food, waiting for the bag to be brought out. I could tell they weren’t tourists. They were probably wondering who the heck I was and not like I could announce it to everyone. I stood there, smiling shyly at everyone who was blatant enough to check me out.

This city, the entire area, has a very small town feel. I understood. Whenever a stranger showed up in Cactus, everyone went crazy wondering who they were. It set the gossips buzzing for days.

That’s what I’ve turned into. I’m the girl who sparks gossip and makes people wonder who the heck I am. Even when I was trying my best not to get any attention whatsoever, it still happened.

“What did you get?” Matt points his black plastic fork at me. His eyes are alight with interest.

We’re sitting at his desk just as he said, eating quietly and occasionally making conversation. These low sounds of complete male satisfaction leave him every once in a while, setting my blood on fire, but I try to ignore them. My dinner is delicious too, something I rarely indulge in because Italian food goes straight to my hips but who cares?

Tonight—not me.

“Mushroom ravioli,” I answer just before I take another bite of crusty, warm bread.

“Are you a vegetarian?” he asks.

“Please, I’m from Texas.” Oh crap. That was sort of a sarcastic and shitty thing to say. I need to watch my mouth.

“Really? I had no idea.” He looks at me, his gaze intense. “Tell me more.”

I shrug, wishing I’d never opened this can of worms. “There’s not much to tell.”

“Now I doubt that, Miss James,” he drawls softly. “We’re sharing a meal together so at the very least you could make polite conversation.”

He’s not going to let this go, I can tell. “Well, you asked for my boring life story so here it is. I grew up in Cactus, Texas, a small town with one stoplight. Wait, there’s another, so make it two.” I tap my fingers against my lips, trying to decide what I can and can’t tell him. Not the bad stuff, which there’s a lot of. No-good daddy, and a too-young mama who never stuck around much or seemed to care. Gruff, but lovable grandma who gave me lots of words of wisdom but wasn’t the best at showering me with affection.

This is probably why I seek out love in all the wrong places. My head is just flat-out screwed up.

“I was raised by my grandma,” I finally say. “My mom was real young and not around much.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">