in pain just then.”
“Oh. I’ve been going to the gym with Terri, and my muscles aren’t pleased about it.”
Now he had a new picture to contend with—Suzanne in tight workout clothes. “I don’t think you’re supposed to get sore working out. Do you stretch?” He wondered why anybody with a body like hers felt the need to go to the gym. No body-sculpting machine would be able to improve on those measurements.
“I stretch.” She took the pan from the stove and started pouring the soup into the mugs. “I get in the hot tub. I take herbal baths when I get home.”
He’d bet she did. And now he had a mental image of her doing that. Oh, baby.
She gave him a quick smile. “I’m just not in very good shape. It’ll get better, or at least Terri says it will.”
“A massage might help.” This conversation wasn’t a good idea. Now he imagined Suzanne stretched out on a massage table naked, while someone, preferably him, oiled her up. He’d sent away for a tantric-massage video months ago because he’d always been curious about the discipline. He’d discovered that the video showed him exactly how to massage a woman to orgasm. He’d never tried it.
“Massage might be a good idea.” Her color was high, almost as if she’d been able to peek into his fevered brain. “I’m sure the gym has some people on staff who could handle that.”
“I’m sure.” He didn’t want her to be massaged by some people on staff. He wanted to take care of it, and he wanted to do it now.
She picked up the mugs and glanced at him. “Ready?”
SOUP. SHE’D INVITED HIM to have a bowl of from-a-can soup. How domestic and totally idiotic. When she’d come up with the plan, it had seemed like a great idea for a cold winter night and something she could prepare in a hurry. But Greg was a big guy, and the skimpy meal she’d offered him wouldn’t be more than an appetizer for him. An appetizer for what?
“Should I move the poinsettia?” he asked.
“Um, sure. And the magazines, if you don’t mind. That stuff can go on the end table.”
She waited while he cleared the table and set down the cheese and crackers. He used care with her things, she noticed. Jared would have scooped up everything and dumped it in a pile, knocking leaves off the poinsettia in the process.
Concentrating on the task, she managed to place the mugs on the glass coffee table without spilling a single drop. That was a real feat, because she was still quivering inside from the way he’d looked at her back in the kitchen. She couldn’t remember ever having a man look at her like that, with such total appreciation. With carnal appreciation, to be precise.
She’d always assumed that kind of heated look would make her feel devalued, like a convenient sex object. But that single look, as if he’d enjoy licking every square inch of her, had done more for her self-esteem in two seconds than she could imagine getting in two years at the blasted gym. No, Greg was not like the gym.
But that didn’t mean she planned to go to bed with him. Scorching looks were a long way from scorching touches. But you couldn’t blame her for wanting to keep Greg around a little bit longer. Maybe she didn’t need the full treatment. A few more of those melting looks and she’d be good to go, ready to hit the dating scene, her ego repaired.
It felt great to be sexually desired. Fabulous. She surveyed the coffee table to see what they were missing. “We need napkins. I’ll be right back.”
She hurried to the kitchen and started to grab a couple of paper napkins from the holder on the counter. Then she changed her mind, opened a drawer and took out the bright red cloth napkins she’d bought because they matched the pillow on her sofa. She’d never found the right time to use them.
When she returned, she found him leafing through one of the magazines he’d moved to the end table. “Looks like you’re interested in decorating.”
She sat down, keeping a full cushion’s distance between them, and handed him a napkin. “I like to fool around.”
His glance was warm and knowing as he laid the napkin over his knee. “I can see that.”
Her words echoed in her head and she blushed. “With decorating, I mean.”
“I knew what you meant.” He picked up the mug of soup in those capable hands of his. “And it shows.”
She feared that what was showing was her sexual interest in him. She had to be careful that he didn’t get the wrong idea and act on some silent signal she was giving off. She grabbed the slicer and carved off a piece of cheese. “It’s hard to do much decoration in such a small apartment.” She put the cheese on a cracker so that she’d look as if she actually cared about eating.
Cradling the mug, he gazed at her. “Does that mean you want a big house someday?”
A big house, with a big bed, and a man who looked like Greg lying naked in it. “I suppose I do.” She’d always expected to have a home, and a husband, and a couple of kids. It was the American way.
In between imagining Greg lying naked on a king-size bed, she found herself wondering about his future plans. Maybe he’d asked the question because he was saving money to get a place of his own. “Do you want a big house eventually?” she asked. Then she took a bite of the cracker and cheese she didn’t want but had to pretend to enjoy.
“A house, maybe. Not a really big one, though. I like intimate, cozy spaces.”
She choked on a piece of cracker.
“Are you okay?”
Nodding frantically, she coughed and took a gulp of her soup. Intimate, cozy spaces. The man had a way with words.
He gazed at her with concern. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
She cleared her throat and blinked the moisture from her eyes. “I’m sure. Just took a breath when I shouldn’t have. So you’re hoping to buy a little bungalow, then?”
“Yeah. More like a cottage. I’ll probably always work in the city, but I wouldn’t mind having a vacation place in Wisconsin. On a lake would be terrific. And it has to have a fireplace.”
“Sounds like a nice dream.” Nobody would have to talk Greg into snuggling on the sofa on a rainy afternoon or during a weekend trip to a cottage in Wisconsin. Longing shivered through her. She wanted to be cuddled on a sofa. She wanted to be held, stroked, petted. According to Terri, this man knew how to do the job right.
But he was still a virtual stranger, and she didn’t go to bed with strangers. “You said that toolbox belonged to your dad,” she said. “Was he a handyman, too?”
He looked surprised by the question. “Yeah, he was.”
“So you decided to follow in his footsteps?”
“Not at first. Not until after…” He paused and stared down into his soup. Then he glanced up. “Not at first,” he said again with a smile. “You know how it is. Kids never want to do exactly what the parents do.”
She
