that. She’d actually invited him to do so, a lifetime ago. Of course, she wouldn’t have offered if she hadn’t been stone drunk, and she obviously didn’t remember the incident.
But it wasn’t that memory that had him knocking off work earlier than he’d planned. What Toby had said, about Doff being an ass to Becca, kept running through his mind. Of course, Doff was an ass to everyone. But Becca, being Becca, had turned the other cheek and kept coming back. She had come today, and he had been barely a notch or two above jerk-level to her.
He’d spent his whole life—or at least his adulthood—proving to himself he was better than that washed-up drunk. But times like these, he cursed Doff because he knew he carried some of dear old Dad’s quality traits. Like picking on those weaker than himself.
So it was a guilty conscience and determination to prove he wasn’t the jackass Doff had been that had him searching for a bar of soap in a filthy house. He took one look at the bathtub and decided he’d have better luck with the water hose in the backyard.
Half an hour later, his blood cooled to the point of civility by his makeshift cold shower, he pulled on clean jeans and a shirt and headed across the field to fulfill his “duty.”
Chapter 2
Becca flipped the stick of graphite between her fingers and used the wide edge to shade the bell of the wedding dress on her sketch pad. Her brow furrowed as much in consternation as concentration, she tried to ignore the voice that echoed spitefully through her head.
Haven’t changed a bit to me.
She closed her eyes and blew a gust of breath at her bangs. Of course, he was right. Oh, she’d worked hard to change her outward appearance. And at the risk of sounding vain, she’d made some major improvements. But then, there had been a lot to improve upon.
Trust Colt to see right through the new hairstyle, the hours spent at the makeup counter at the department store learning how to make the most of her “natural attributes,” the constant inner reminder to hold her chin up, to look people in the eye, to speak clearly.
Trust Colt to see immediately what she had forgotten. That she was really, underneath it all, still the same old Becca Danvers.
Who had she thought she was kidding? Certainly not herself, though she’d tried hard enough. She’d tried this morning, when she pulled her special-occasion-only suit out of the closet, telling herself there was no sense in owning a power suit if it never saw the light of day. And again this afternoon, when she stopped by Dottie’s Nails & More for the second manicure of her life. And even this afternoon when she’d actually looked herself in the eye in the rearview mirror and said, “I believe I’ll just stop by and see if Colt Bonner needs anything.” As if she hadn’t been planning it from the moment she saw him pull up in front of his house.
She’d deserved what she got, too, she decided as she dropped the graphite stick on the tray in disgust. She tucked her feet up on the stool and examined the red scrape on her shin. Her power suit was back in the closet where it would be until the next open house at school. Her demolished Silky Sheer Precious Ivories were wadded in the wastebasket. She’d come home, humiliated, and changed into flannel boxers and a white tank top.
She gathered her hair into a ponytail and wound it on top of her head, jabbing a pencil into the mass to hold it in place. It had been a long time since she’d felt like such a fool. But then, it had been a long time since she’d tried to be something she wasn’t.
She went into the kitchen and opened the fridge, the cold air chilling her bare toes. At least she no longer had to waste hours of her life, imagining ridiculous scenes of how Colt would react when he saw her again. At least she no longer had to wake up at night visualizing something out of a movie—Colt taking one look at her, being instantly bedazzled and setting out in pursuit of her like a man possessed.
He’d seen her—and been terrifically underwhelmed. And in her power suit and manicure, no less!
She pulled a pitcher of iced tea from the fridge and told herself again that it served her right. What was she expecting? That when Colt realized it was she standing there, he would confess that he’d traveled the world in an attempt to get her out of his mind, that he couldn’t forget the taste of her, the feel of her? And that now that he’d come to her again, he would never let her go?
Come on.
She frowned and poured a big glass of tea. Okay, so maybe that was a little over the top, even for her. But would it have killed him to say she looked nice?
But she had learned the lesson years ago and, except for this one crucial day when, apparently, she was hell-bent on humiliating herself, she’d lived by the wisdom of it.
She bent and made a face at her reflection in the chrome toaster. “Accept who you are,” she said firmly. “Accept what you are.”
“What was it trying to be? A can opener?”
Becca shrieked, jerked and spun. She splashed frigid iced tea all over herself at the same moment she saw Colt standing at her open kitchen window.
She tried to draw breath to speak, but all she could manage was a series of shallow gasps and then a noise that came out sounding like “Uhhuhhh.”
“Sorry. Did I scare you?”
She nodded, openmouthed.
“I only meant to surprise you.”
“Yes, well…you did that, too.” She finally got some air into her lungs and stepped up to the screen.
“Cold, huh?”
To his credit, Colt did make an attempt to hide the grin that crept up his cheeks.
She nodded again. “What are you doing here?”
“You invited me, remember?”
“Yes, and I—I also remember you declined.”
“I reconsidered. Is the offer still open?”
“Of course it is.”
“Um, Becca?”
She cocked a brow.
“That was really cold tea, wasn’t it.”
“Yes.” Hadn’t he already asked that? She looked down and wished this time for the floor to open up and swallow her whole. Her white tank top—now virtually transparent—tented out under the hard buds of her nipples.
She grabbed at the shirt with both hands and pulled it away far enough that he could probably see down the neck as well. “I’ll just—I’ll just go change.” She backed away, picturing how she must look with her pencil-eraser nipples, scraped shin and gaping mouth. Quite lovely, to be sure. She kept backing, and bumped into the doorjamb.
“That’d probably be a good idea,” he said.
“The front door’s unlocked. Make yourself at home. I’ll just be a second.”
In her bedroom she stripped down to her underwear, wondering what had changed his mind. Certainly it hadn’t been her cool, sophisticated poise. And he’d told her to her face that her
