Текст книги "Lovely Trigger"

Автор книги: R. K. Lilley

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

CHAPTER TWELVE

DANIKA

I’d bought a house the year prior, less than two months after I’d moved back to Las Vegas.

It was an odd move, because I’d never even considered buying a place before.  I’d been a pretty happy renter.

But I made good money, and I’d just started looking at houses, with a mind to planting some roots.  Very quickly, I’d found a cute little place in Seven Hills.  The commute wasn’t bad into work.  The traffic was a dream, compared to what I’d gotten used to in Los Angeles, and my location gave me a few route options, if I hit it at the wrong times.

It was a quiet area, and for the most part, my neighbors kept to themselves.

The lady next door had what seemed like thirty cats, but that didn’t bother me.  I didn’t have pets, but I loved pets, so I found myself buying cat food, and putting it on my back porch, shamelessly feeding the felines so they’d like me.

I traveled too much to have my own pets, so I just borrowed a few sometimes.

There was an orange tabby and a blue point Himalayan I was particularly fond of, and those ones even got to come into my house.

I had a promising future as a lonely cat lady.

I’d been back in town for two days and still hadn’t had any contact with Tristan.  I’d gotten right back into work, and I knew Tristan’d had his show the last two nights.

Some days I enjoyed the peaceful solitude of my little house in Seven Hills.  Some days there was nothing I loved more than coming home from work, putting on a pair of sweats, collecting my furry friends, and curling up with a good book, shutting out the world, getting lost in fantasyland.  Nothing beat an absorbing book in terms of distraction.

I wasn’t feeling that need for solitude so much that night.  I wasn’t in the mood for reading or borrowing cats.

In fact, I felt so lonely that I found myself doing something I almost never did.

Logging onto Facebook.

It was my personal account, so there wasn’t much going on.  I had two friend requests, but only one of them had my heart racing.  I clicked confirm on both before I could talk myself out of it.

Less than two minutes later, a little red number one appeared above my message box, and breathless, I clicked on it.

Tristan had left me a short message.

Tristan Vega:  Thanks for accepting my friend request.  I promise to try my hardest to refrain from sending you too many dick pics.  

That surprised a laugh out of me, and then a smile that just wouldn’t go away.

Danika Markova:  How sweet.  What a gentleman you are.  

Tristan Vega:  By too many, I mean more than a dozen, just so you can’t say I didn’t give you fair warning.

Danika Markova:  Don’t make me find the unfriend button.

I sent it as a joke, but his response back was effusive and apologetic.

Tristan Vega:  I’m very sorry.  I was totally joking.

Danika Markova:  I was only joking, too.  

Tristan Vega:  You have any exciting plans this weekend?  

I sighed, not knowing what to tell him, not knowing what to do.  What I wanted to do and how I needed to handle things were two polar opposites at the moment, actively working against each other.

Danika Markova:  I do have plans.  How was the show tonight?  

Tristan Vega:  Good.  Want to have lunch tomorrow, at the casino?  I’ll be in early, and I know you’re working.  

I shut my eyes, knowing that I should find an excuse to say no.  I needed to slow this thing down, and if we started seeing each other on a daily basis, that wasn’t going to happen.

He was easing his way into being a big part of my life again, and I knew that it was nothing that I should encourage.  He took a mile for every inch I gave.  He always had.

Still, I told myself it was only lunch.  And if he was already going to be there, it seemed over the top rude to turn him down.

Danika Markova:  Sounds good.  Just let me know when you want to go.  My lunch hour is flexible.

Tristan Vega:  Perfect.  I’ll text you around noon, when I get close.  

I logged off quickly after that, making a note not to go on Facebook again.  That had backfired on me in a hurry.  But even as I had the thought, I was smiling.

I dressed with care the next day, wanting to look my best for the most obvious reasons.

I loved clothes, loved fashion.  I always had, and my fashion sense had been constantly evolving through the years.  I had a great job, and little in the way of expenses, so I indulged myself in this.

I’d been very into pleats and collars last season, bringing a bit of prep into my business attire.  I liked this look because it was cute and feminine, but still classy.  My hemline was usually at my knee or lower, my neckline high, and though everything was usually fitted to complement my figure, it was all very modest.  My color palette was usually neutral, with lots of creams, beiges, grays.  Colors, when I’d worn them, had been muted.

I found myself shopping more than usual the last few weeks, though (specifically since the wedding), and it seemed that my style preferences had changed seemingly overnight.

Now what caught my eye were plunging necklines and raised hems.  A bit more skin.  A flash of vibrant color.  Still classy, still professional, but I’d definitely found my sexy side again.

I didn’t have to think hard to know why this had changed for me.

Needless to say, I’d been shopping a lot, updating my wardrobe, turning it up a notch.  Lucky for me, I worked in a building with some of the best shopping in town.  And Vegas was a town with some killer shopping.

Today I wore a fitted black tuxedo jacket, and a white pleated skirt that hit me mid-thigh.  I kept the jacket buttoned, because underneath I wore nothing but a violet bralette.  It was modest enough, as long as I kept the jacket buttoned, just a glaring flash of lace showing at the neckline.

I wore bright white patent leather loafers with it.  They were flats.  That couldn’t be helped.

I parted my hair down the middle and curled it into thick ringlets, then tousled it a bit.  My makeup got as much care, with a dark eye and glossy pale lips.

My extra time paid off when I walked into work feeling sexy.   Pride was a perverse thing.

The morning dragged and right before noon, I went to the bathroom, refreshing all of my makeup.  It was foolish, but even if we were just being friends, I wanted to look my best in front of Tristan.  And by my best, I mean sexy as hell.

It was Frankie who came strolling into the gallery at about eleven forty-five.

“I hate to be the one to break it to you,” I called out to her, smiling, “but I’m ninety-five percent sure that some wild animal ate the bottom half of your tank top.”

She smiled ruefully.  “You’re just jealous because your job has a dress code that doesn’t include belly shirts.  I can recall you rockin’ your own under boob a time or two, or have you forgotten?”

I hadn’t forgotten.  I still had a few of the trashy shirts, for the random rainy day indoors.

“Tristan is going to meet us at the restaurant,” she continued.  “I invited myself to lunch with you guys.  Hope you don’t mind.”

I shook my head, eyes wide.  “Not at all.  Sounds like a great idea.”

She laughed.  “Well, your reaction was better than Tristan’s, at least.  He actually threatened to start getting his tats elsewhere.  Can you imagine?”

I blushed, pleased at the notion that he’d wanted to have lunch alone with me.  But again, I knew I was being foolish.  Stupid, even.

To say I was conflicted where Tristan was concerned was the understatement of a lifetime.

“Where we headed for lunch?” I asked her, going to grab my bag.

I waved at Sandra before we started to walk.  Frankie naturally slowed down for me.  She was used to my slow walking.

“The Mexican place.  What else?  I love to get the enchiladas when I’m with Tristan so he can rant about how much better he makes them, and then I rope him into cooking for me.  Works one hundred percent of the time.  Try it.  See if I’m wrong.”

I just shook my head at her and smiled.

Sounded like Trouble to me.  It didn’t help that just thinking about his cooking had me salivating.

We were seated and chatting when Tristan showed up promptly at noon.  We were in a booth, so he had to sit next to one of us.

He squeezed in next to me, throwing an arm over the back of my seat.

I flushed when he said quietly into my ear, “Jesus.  You look beautiful.”

I tried to order a salad, but that about gave Tristan a conniption.

“Don’t tell me about your fucking diet again,” Frankie chimed in, taking his side.

I made a face and shrugged.  “Must be nice not to have to diet and keep a great figure, you two, but that isn’t how it works for me.”

Tristan ignored that completely, and then ordered tamale combos for all of us.  “It’s their best dish.  Trust me on this.”

“I was craving some enchiladas,” Frankie complained.

“Well then come have dinner at my house tonight, before my show.  I’ll cook.”

“Done,” she stated before he’d even finished talking.

“Both of you,” he added.

I was looking down at the menu, but I felt his eyes on me.

“Oh, well, thanks for the offer, but I have plans tonight.”  It was lame, but it was the best I could do on short notice.

“Oh yeah?  What are your plans?” Tristan asked, and if he was trying to disguise the tense new note in his voice, he was doing it poorly.

I looked at him, and his attitude seemed to rein itself in before my eyes.

“A rain check then,” he told me.

I shrugged, refusing to commit to anything.

It was a strange meal, though I couldn’t deny that it was enjoyable.

He was big and the bench wasn’t, so we sat hip to hip and ate and joked with Frankie for a good hour.

It was like being transported back in time.  I didn’t begin to know what to feel about that.

Frankie headed straight to her shop after we finished, but Tristan walked me back to work, strolling slowly beside me, hands in the pockets of his slacks.  He was well turned out, in an all-black suit with no tie.  The effects were devastating, though I tried not to dwell on them.

“You’re all dressed up today.  What’s the occasion?” I asked him, my tone idle, my eyes hungry.

“Don’t you like it?  I know you aren’t a fan of my T-shirt and jeans uniform.”

My mouth twisted as I shot him a look out of the corner of my eye.  “I do like it, but why on earth would you say that?  I have never in my life complained about the way you dress.”

He shrugged, fidgeting with his collar.  “I haven’t failed to notice that you only date professionals.  The kind that wear suits, not jeans.”

I stopped to give him my full attention.  “Don’t tell me you dressed like this for me.”

He looked distinctly uncomfortable.  He shrugged again.  “I wear suits sometimes.  Not a big deal.”

We started walking again.  My eyes were glued to the carpet on the casino floor.  It was elaborately patterned in blue and gold, very nice, but somehow managed to look like the floor of every other casino I’d ever been in.  What was with that?  Why did they all look the same?  Was it all of the slot machines, the sounds, the sights?

I realized I was trying to distract myself and snapped out of it.

“I am a fan of T-shirts and jeans, Tristan.”

Especially when they were wrapped around his spectacular body, but I sure as hell wasn’t telling him that.

He stopped abruptly, looking at me like I was supposed to be reacting to something.

I didn’t care for the look.  Something in it scared me.  Threatened me, or at least, my well-being.

I glanced around.  We were near some slot machines and to our left was a women’s restroom.

My eyes widened, then narrowed.

I started walking again.

In my mind, I’d systematically gotten used to moving past that spot, just as I had the sports book that we would pass next.

There were memories in this place, memories that I’d had to push far back in my mind, to keep sane.

“Do you remember—”

“Don’t.  We’re not doing that.  We’re not taking a walk down memory lane.  We just aren’t.  Is that clear?”

He sighed, but agreed.

But I did remember.  Oh Lord, did I remember.

I remembered so well that it had me seeing into the very near future, that very night in fact, when I would go home by myself, go to bed by myself, and fantasize, obsessively, about getting fucked in the stall of that bathroom over six years ago.

We walked the rest of the way in silence, but he didn’t leave me at the entrance, following me all the way to my office.

I went and stood at my tall project desk, looking down at it, knowing I had things to do, but unable to focus on anything to do with work.

Forgetting, for a moment, what my work even was.

“What are you doing?” I asked Tristan, who was in my office, leaning against the wall, just looking at me.

“I want to cook for you.  When can you come to my house for dinner?”

I should have turned him down flat, but something he’d said and something I’d heard made me too curious to pass up the chance to ask about it.

“Your house?” I questioned.  “I heard the strangest rumor that you live in the casino.”

His mouth quirked up just enough to flash a dimple.  “It’s required in my contract that they keep a room available for my own personal use for the duration of the show.  It’s a suite, my own personal suite, for nights that run late, but it is not where I live.  I do have a house, out near Seven Hills.”

My eyes widened, but I didn’t tell him that I lived in that direction, as well.  Then he’d ask questions, and possibly find out exactly where, and I did not need that on top of everything else.

“How about tomorrow?” he asked, tucking his hands into his pockets.

I shook my head, admiring the lines of his suit.  It was amazing how well it fit him, sexy, giant biceps and all.   “No.  No.  That sounds like a date.  We are not dating.  Friends don’t date.”

“Frankie is coming to my house tonight, by herself, and I’m cooking her dinner.  Same damn thing that I’m proposing for tomorrow.  You going to tell me I’m dating Frankie now?”

As far as arguments went, he got the award for best angle on a shitty one.

I had a thought.  “I bet Estella is coming too, so that makes it completely different.”

“She’s not.  Estella is busy.  Tonight is just me and Frankie, since you refuse to come.”

“I said I have plans.”

“Okay, fine.  So come tomorrow.  A friendly dinner.  You can see my house.  Aren’t you curious about my house?”

I sure was.  He knew me so well.  I was utterly fascinated to see what kind of place he’d ended up in, where he called home now.

“Tomorrow isn’t a good night for me, anyway,” I hedged.

“The next night then.  That’s better, actually.  I’m off that night.  Friends have dinner with each other.  This is how friends work.  Now work with me.”

I shut my eyes, caving.  “Okay, fine.  Day after tomorrow, we will have a platonic dinner, and I get to check out your house.”

“Thank you,” he said, closer now.

I opened my eyes to look up at him.

His hands went to the lapels of my blazer, smoothing them absently.

“You going to see that guy tonight?”

“I’m not talking about him with you.  That’s out of line.”

“Does he know about me?  Did you tell him that you and I—”

“Stop.  Stop this instant or I’m done.”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.  “I’m sorry.  You’re right.  I can’t do that.”  He opened them again and focused on my jacket, or specifically, the buttons of my jacket.

Quick as a flash, and nervy as all hell, he unbuttoned it, sucking in a gasp at the tiny scrap of cloth I had on under it.

I took two quick steps back, buttoning it up again in a hurry.

He ran a hand through his hair, eyes wide.  “Fuck.  You wear shit like that to work often?”

I shrugged in a noncommittal way.

“Fuck.  Well, that messes with my head.  What can I do to convince you to let me see that again?”  He smiled.  “I barely got a glance.  If I’m going to be fantasizing about that tonight, it would be nice to have a very clear picture.”

I pointed my finger at the door, trying to hide my smile.  “You need to go, before you talk yourself out of cooking me dinner in a few days.”

He cursed, sent me a comically longing glance that had me trying not to laugh, and left.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I dressed with care the morning of my non-date with Tristan.  Of course I did.  I always put time and care into looking well put together for work, but that day I woke up an hour earlier than usual, taking extra care, and picking out my clothes with a giddy fire in my belly.

I went with a cream-colored pencil skirt that hit a few inches above the knees, and a fitted lavender silk high-necked halter top with a cutout design at the collarbone that revealed a bit of skin, and a hint of cleavage.  It also left my arms, the top of my back, and the upper section of my sides bare.

When paired with a matching cream blazer, it was quite professional.  When taken off, very sexy.

I was pleased.

I parted my hair down the middle and pulled it back in a severe chignon.  The severe style brought out the paleness of my eyes.  A heavy, smoky eye shadow gave them extra pop.  A pale pink lip finished the look.

Work moved at a snail’s pace, but that was to be expected.  I overcompensated by staying as busy as humanly possible, putting details for various showings together that didn’t need to be done for another month.

Kate and Sandra, the two women that worked the gallery with me, both part time, seemed to know something was up with me.

Sandra, who’d known me for years, cornered me in my office and shamelessly fished for information.  “So Kate tells me that Tristan Vega came by yesterday; that he went into your office.”

I looked up from what I was doing to give her a very bland look.  “Yes, he stopped by briefly.”

Her head tilted curiously, and she just kept studying me.  “So he’s shopping for some art?  Is that what you’re helping him with?”

I sighed.  To say I wanted to avoid this conversation like the plague was putting it mildly.  “I’m in the middle of something.  Is this urgent, and is there a reason you’re asking?”

“Oh, sorry, no,” she said, looking like I’d just burst her bubble.  We were friends, and her natural curiosity had been about anything other than Tristan, I likely would have indulged it.

I felt like a jerk, but it was necessary.  The last thing I wanted was for rumors to start up about Tristan and me.

I normally stayed at work until six, and today was no different.  I stayed until five o’clock sharp, not indulging even a small break in pattern.

It was pretty much torture to wait, and when it was time to go, I had to rein in the urge to rush to my car.

The entire drive there, I kept asking myself: What on earth are you doing?  Why did you agree to this, no matter the justification?

No matter the temptation.

This didn’t fit in with any of my plans, small scale or large.

Going over to have him cook me dinner.  Just he and I, alone.

No pretenses, or none that I could convince myself weren’t bogus.

How could we call this anything but a date?  How could we act like this, of all things, was purely platonic?

This tarnished facade that we were calling a friendship was quickly coming clean, before it had really even begun.

I was disappointed in myself, because that pretense, if nothing else, would have let me have more time with him.

My self-control, in the face of this blissful infatuation, had no chance at all.

His house was intimidating, but I should have anticipated that.  It was common knowledge that he had one of the best contracts in town and was paid handsomely for his talent.

It had its own gate and a long drive up to the actual house.  Dayum, the man must be loaded.  It was a hard concept to reconcile in my mind.  We’d been so young and poor together, back in the day.

He met me at the door before I even knocked.  He beamed at me.

I took him in.  He was wearing a white dress shirt open at the neck, with the sleeves rolled up, but still a dress shirt.  And slacks.  It was so strange that I just gaped at him for a moment.  Where was my T-shirt and jeans rocker?

“You look amazing,” he told me, bending to kiss my cheek before I saw it coming.  He was in and out in a flash, too fast for me to take exception.

“You too,” I said through numb lips and a suddenly dry throat.  “Did you just come from a meeting or something?”

“Nope.  Been cooking for hours.”  He pulled me inside.

I was instantly assaulted by the divine smell of his too die for enchiladas.  I’m not kidding; I almost started drooling, mouth filling with saliva, jaw going slack in anticipation.

“Oh God,” I said, giving him wide eyes.  “I’d convinced myself that I had invented that smell in my mind, but it really exists.”

His smile was playful.  “You’ve been missing out, boo.  Feel free to use me for my cooking any time the mood strikes you.”

“Do I get the tour of the house before or after we eat?”

“After.  Food’s ready now.  And get this, homemade tortillas.”

I shut my eyes, like he was talking dirty to me.

He continued, “Pico and guacamole from scratch.  And dessert is a surprise.”

The man was diabolical.

We ate in his formal dining room.  It was a beautiful room, huge, with twenty-foot ceilings, and ultra-modern decor.  One of Bianca’s spectacular paintings hung on the wall.

I could tell he’d gone to some trouble, with a centerpiece of fresh flowers and lit candles set throughout the room.  He’d set his long black table with intricately folded white napkins and very nice dinnerware.

He sat me at the head of the table, taking the spot at my right, and didn’t let me lift one finger to get the food, serving me like I was royalty.

I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d tried to feed me each bite by hand, but thank God, he did not.

We had an awkward moment when I took my jacket off and he got a load of my shirt.  Yes, I was sporting side boob, and yes, I knew that would drive him crazy.

We got past it though, after a few minutes where all of the oxygen left the room, and he just stared at me like a man starving.

I looked down at my food and started eating.

He could still cook his ass off.  I found myself closing my eyes to savor each bite and eating way more than I needed to, when I rarely ate for enjoyment.  I liked to think of food as fuel for my body and ate accordingly, but Tristan’s cooking had always knocked that theory right out the window for me.

I didn’t look at him as I ate.  It was bad enough that I’d given in enough to even be here, but finding out if he still watched me like he used to would do nothing for my peace of mind.

And if he was indifferent now, well, there was no doubt that would be even worse.

“Is the food okay?” he finally asked me, his tone a little hoarse.

I just nodded, though okay was the biggest understatement in the world.

After stuffing myself to the brim, I finally made myself set my fork down.  I wiped my mouth with one of his fancy white cloth napkins, still not looking at him.  “Thank you, Tristan.  It was very nice of you to cook dinner, but I really should be going.”

“Wait, you can’t,” he burst out, sounding more than a touch panicked.

Some thread of desperation in his tone had my heart twisting in my chest, and I finally looked at him.

He was watching me, his face deceptively blank, except for his eyes, which were pleading with me in a way that I’d never been able to resist.

“Why can’t I?” I finally asked, after we’d stared at each other for an uncomfortably long time.

“You can’t skip dessert.”

“I don’t think I could take one more bite of food.  You know I can never stop eating your enchiladas until I’m stuffed.”

“So stick around for a while, and I’ll make us some dessert when you’re up for it.”

“Tristan—” I began.

“Please.  Just hang out for a while.  What’s the harm? We can watch the new episodes of Arrested Development and just chill.  No funny business.  I’ll sit on a different couch, if you want.  I just want to hang out with you, like old times.  Like friends.”

The pleading tone he used got to me.  I never could tell this man no.

“I heard about those new episodes.  I haven’t had a chance to watch them yet.  Are they good?”  We’d watched the old seasons at least half a dozen times each and had quoted the funny parts to each other more times than I could count.  It wasn’t a show I’d been able to watch without thinking of him, so I’d avoided it very deliberately over the last six years.

“I haven’t watched them, either.  It wouldn’t have been any fun without you.”

I bit my lip and gave him a rueful smile.

We’d ruined each other for so many things.

“Jerry tells me they’re good,” I remarked.  “Can’t compare to the original, but good, is what he said.”

“Well I’d take a bad episode of that show over a good episode of anything else.”

We shared a smile.

As though it had been inevitable, I found myself relaxing on the sofa in a cozy media room just off his kitchen and watching the show with him.

He did behave himself at first, even sitting on a different couch, as promised.

But that didn’t last long.

Had I thought it would?  Best not to think about.

“Relax, put your feet up,” he ordered, when we were two episodes in, and I was still sitting with my feet flat on the floor, my hands in my lap.

His plush sofa was huge, and it had been a struggle to sit up straight on it.  I put my feet up, because it was just more comfortable, and I was starting to feel ridiculous.

We were another episode in, both of us laughing, when he moved to sit at my feet.

I shot him a warning look.

“Oh, relax.  I’m not going to attack you.”

I felt silly and turned my attention back to the TV.  I was clutching my belly and laughing when he started to rub one of my feet.  His touch was firm, hitting just the right spot, so when I looked at him to tell him to stop, my mouth was already a little slackened with pleasure.

“Tristan,” I tried to warn, but it could as easily have been construed as a plea.

He kept his eyes on the screen, ignoring me completely either way, and kept rubbing.

I was basically a relaxed puddle on his couch by the time he moved to the second foot, and when he moved his hand up to rub my bad knee, I was done for.

It was three more episodes in, all the while with his pleasurable hands rubbing my knee, my calves, my feet, when he moved to lay behind me, his arm going over my ribs, hugging.

“Tristan,” I whispered.  I didn’t even know what I was trying to tell him, let alone how it was actually perceived.

“Please,” he whispered.  “Just for a moment, let me hold you.  Nothing else.”

Nothing else, except for everything, I thought, my mind going fuzzy.

He was pressed hard into my back, and so I could feel that he wanted to do more, but he didn’t.  He just held me and it wasn’t for a moment, but many moments, and for every second of it, I trembled.

“Thank you,” he said into my hair after a time, kissing me softly on the side of the head.

He got up and went into the kitchen, but quickly returned to sit at my feet.  He resumed with the rubbing.

The house quickly filled with the smell of baking cookies.

“Oh God,” I said, somehow hungry again.  “Chocolate chip?”

“You know it.”

I looked at him and smiled, and his hands froze.

I started to shake my head when I saw the look on his face, but he ignored that, moving to lay behind me again.  He pressed hard against me, one arm thrown over me, and his big hand moved to my stomach and started to rub.  To stroke.

He lifted up my shirt and kneaded at the skin over my ribs, then snaked his hand down into my skirt to massage the flesh around my naval.  I lay there, stiff but trembling.  Eventually, his hand moved low enough to dig into a rope of scar tissue, and that little tinge of discomfort was enough to give me some willpower.

His fingers had begun to feel at the hard ridge of the scar, as though to determine what it was, when I grabbed his hand and pulled it away.

His voice was rough and worried.  “Danika, what was—“-“

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

The oven timer began to chime, and I stood, going to sit at the round table in his breakfast nook.

I listened to him as he went into the kitchen, mapped out every move as he took the cookies out, and switched them onto a plate.

I looked down at my hands the entire time.

He joined me at the table, setting the large platter of cookies directly in front of me.  He sat down beside me, and the second he did, on the side of my bad leg, he began to rub my knee.

That got me to look at him, which I was sure had been the point.

“What—” he started to ask again.

“No.”  I shook my head, and tried to still the hand on my knee.  It was persistent, though, and just kept rubbing.  “I’m not doing this.  We have a relationship with boundaries now, Tristan.  I’m not going to give you what you want, every time you want it, just because I’m incapable of telling you no.  I’ve changed and you’ve changed, and we need to have some rules, if we are going to be able to spend time together like this.”

“Yes, I know that, but I just wanted to know what that was—“

“No,” I said again, firmly.  I would not waver in this.  “I refuse to talk about it, and your hands should not be going there in the first place.”

His jaw clenched, and I saw a glimmer of his now rare temper flash in his eyes, but he shut them quickly, hiding it, shutting it down.  “Okay,” he said finally.  “I’ll drop it.”

Things were stiff after that.  I ate two of the delectable cookies, then told him that I had to go.  He didn’t protest, just packing me up a container of cookies to take.

“Oh, you don’t need to—”

“Take them,” he grumbled.  “I made them for you.  The least you can do is pretend that you want them.”

I nodded and took them.  He walked me to the door and then to my car.  He opened the driver’s side door for me, but then blocked me from entering.

He took the cookies carefully from my hand, setting them on top of the car.  He turned to me, then slowly, softly, embraced me.  He hugged me under the arms and lifted me against him.  He pulled me right into his neck, and my arms went up to hook at his nape, holding on, since my feet had been lifted cleanly off the ground.  He put his lips to my temple and just held on.

Neither of us said a word, but we didn’t let go.  Not for a very long time.

I didn’t think of it until I was nearly home, but he’d never given me a tour of his house.  Dammit, now I’d have to go back.