at the sight of Grayson Hunt turning his wide shoulders slightly as he entered the narrow doorway.
His sharp gaze spotted her immediately—not hard considering the miniscule dimensions of the shop—and she swallowed past the hard knot that formed in her throat.
She’d come armed in a suit, while he’d donned a loud crimson-and-lime Hawaiian-print shirt that hung loose over well-worn blue jeans. A Seahawks ball cap was pulled close over his forehead.
To shield his looks? Or protect that thick brownish-blond hair of his from the rain?
All the things she’d heard and read about the man told her that last was pretty unlikely.
But then, so were the jeans. In all the articles she’d seen about him, all the photos she’d amassed, all the arcane video sound bites she’d unearthed, she’d never once seen the man photographed wearing such casual attire.
Pity, a devilish brain cell noted.
The man, devil or not, looked seriously good in jeans.
He reached her in two steps, and his hands—seeming as long and lanky as the rest of him—took the coffees from her. “Morning. You look different.”
“I don’t wear sweats to work,” she pointed out and nearly winced at the way her voice sounded breathless. She cleared her throat. “I saved that table over there. The one with the satchel on top.”
He looked over his shoulder and nodded, setting off ahead of her and cutting a swath for her to pass through the line that had stretched out the doorway all over again. She followed and with her hand freed, wrapped it around the cardboard container.
It had to be nerves causing the tingling from where his fingers had grazed hers. It had to be.
Not even her fiancé had caused sensations like that when he’d touched her. Not that there had been a whole lot of touching going on between John and Amelia. He’d been more interested in touching Pamela.
She’d seen that with her own eyes.
She moistened her lips and set the muffins on the table, pulling her briefcase off the chair and setting it on the floor. She realized with a start that Grayson wasn’t taking the chair closest to the window—he was standing there, holding it out for her.
That knot was back in her throat again, threatening to choke her. She managed a smile and slipped into the seat, painfully aware of their proximity as she did so.
Even above the pervasively aromatic scent of coffee, she could smell him. Not piney. Definitely not flowery. Indefinable, almost. But fresh. Clean.
Memorable.
She ducked her chin, busying herself with separating the napkins as he brushed past her to take the other seat.
Devils weren’t supposed to smell as good as he did.
“Are you on your way to work?” she asked, striving for a calm tone.
“I have some meetings later on.” He slid the molded plastic lid from the top of his cup and lifted it, heedless of the steam. His eyes narrowed a little as he took a steady sip, which only seemed to make their blue-green color more pronounced between his black, spiky lashes.
“I, um, I should have waited until you got here to order. I just know what the lines are like, here. Pretty crazy sometimes. But you might have preferred something other than regular coffee.”
His lips twisted slightly. “Like one of those?” He nodded toward a bearded guy departing with a cup overflowing with whipped topping. “I’m more of a purist.” He set down his cup and took the enormous muffin she held out for him, looking slightly surprised as he broke it open. “Cranberry?”
She nodded, tearing her own muffin in half, then quarters. “It’s a nice change from blueberry or bran.” And she’d automatically ordered it, never thinking about the fact that she’d learned of his penchant for the things in a sound bite he’d given during a breast cancer run.
Just tell him, Amelia. Get it all out, so the threatening can begin.
She pulled off the cover of her own coffee and took too hasty a sip. She gasped as the heat singed her tongue and she exhaled. “Oh. Wow. I ought to know better.”
He made a soft sound, was gone from the table and back again with a cup of water before she’d stopped blinking back the tears that stung her eyes. “Here.” He folded her fingers around the cup.
She wanted to stick her tongue out and let it soak in the cool water, but since she was no longer three years old, that hardly seemed appropriate.
She drank slowly, letting the stinging in her tongue abate as she eyed him across the table. How could a man be as solicitous as he’d seemed to be—not just now, but when he’d nearly run over her—and be so callous where his own child was concerned?
She finally lowered the cup. “You probably think I’m accident prone or something.”
He grinned, looking suddenly younger and even more approachable, and the sight made her catch her breath just as surely as the hot coffee had. “Maybe I like rescuing you,” he drawled.
She smiled weakly. Picked at her muffin, doing more spreading of crumbs than anything.
“Not that you let me do much in the way of rescuing,” he went on. He caught one of her hands in his, startling her, and made a deep sound low in his throat as he turned her palm upward, gently spreading her fingers flat. He touched the scrapes that had begun healing over. “Such soft skin to be collecting scrapes.” He didn’t release her hand as his gaze lifted to hers. “And your knees? Probably still sore, I’ll bet.”
She curled her fingers, as if to protect her palms from the warmth of his hand on hers, but only succeeded in folding them over his.
As if they were holding hands.
She yanked her hand away, tucking it in her lap. She cleared her throat. She’d always believed that running really wasn’t her particular cup of tea. She was more a swimming kind of person. But the activity had been growing on her. “I’ll admit that I haven’t been out running just yet.”
“I can believe that.” He picked up the remaining portion of his muffin and polished off half of it in a single bite. “Do I make you nervous, Amelia?” His voice was low. Surprisingly gentle.
She flushed. “Of course not.”
“You’re doing more shredding than eating of that muffin.”
There was no denying the truth of that particular observation. She’d spread crumbs well beyond the borders of the napkin that she’d opened out like a plate.
She delicately brushed her fingertips together, giving up the pretense of eating. “I’m not as hungry as I thought I’d be. Would you, um, like another muffin?” The man easily topped six feet, and though he had a lean body, his shoulders were still massively wide.
He didn’t look away from her. “I’m good, thanks.”
Good?
Anxiety
