rolling her eyes. “So don’t make me look at you.”
He was silent.
She sneaked a peek. Face only. “What?”
“Are you really sex-starved?” His voice was more than curious. As if maybe he was considering dropping the woven throw. She didn’t want that. Or at least wasn’t supposed to want that.
She swallowed her panic and laughed. “You might as well ask me what I weigh. That’s something I’d never admit to.”
“Then head for the door, woman, because if you stay, we might rewrite history.”
Rayne rolled her eyes. Again. “Seriously? That’s the kind of line you use on women?”
Brent reached out, clicked off the lamp and moved her way. “Oh, yeah, haven’t you heard? I’m the master of pickup lines.”
“Oh, jeez,” Rayne said, moving toward the door in case he wasn’t teasing, even though part of her wanted to stay and find out. His laughter dogged her steps. The son of a gun was playing with her. She flung a last look over her shoulder. He stood framed against the darkness like a naughty ad for men’s cologne or close-shaving razors.
“So will you be there tomorrow?”
He smiled. “Yeah. You can count on me.”
Rayne arched an eyebrow. “Okay, I’ll hold you to that.”
Then she turned and made her way to the inn wondering if his promise meant as much now as it had back then. And wondering why she hadn’t left as soon as she’d seen he was spectacularly naked.
She didn’t know the answer to one question and was very afraid of the answer to the other.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE SOUP BUBBLED MERRILY on the stove as Rayne sliced truffles for the fennel and dandelion salad she would serve atop the thinly sliced Bosc pears. The rich smell of chicken broth made her tummy growl, but she kept slicing through the earthy pungency of the delicate fungus, while ignoring the smoky Gouda cheese sitting on the wooden cutting board. She’d found the cheese at a farmer’s market in Dallas last weekend. It was divine and she’d already sampled too much of it.
“Mom, can we buy some Pop-Tarts?”
Rayne recoiled as if Henry had asked to eat a booger. “Good Lord, no. Where have you eaten Pop-Tarts?”
Henry shrugged. “Back in Austin. At Kyle Warner’s house. He had all kinds of them. Strawberry, cinnamon and blue—”
“Stop.” Rayne threw up her hand. “Do you know what kind of ingredients are in those things?”
Henry’s brown eyes didn’t blink as he stared at her. “I don’t care. I saw a kid eating them at school today. They had icing on the top.”
Meg dropped the books she was carrying onto the counter. “Give it up, bud. You’ve got the same chance as a nun getting a navel ring. Not going to happen. She’d rather you eat dirt than something with all those chemicals. Be glad you didn’t eat it recently or you’d be getting purged.”
“What’s purged?” Henry asked, flicking little pieces of the cheese with his fingers.
“Stop,” Rayne said for the umpteenth time that day.
“Making yourself throw up,” Meg said, making the motion of sticking her finger down her throat.
Rayne shot her assistant a glare as Henry screwed up his face and groaned, “Gross!”
Brent stomped into the kitchen and sniffed. “What’s gross?”
Meg fluttered and it made Rayne roll her eyes. Her assistant said Brent Hamilton did nothing for her. That, however, wasn’t the way she acted. Her slightly Gothic, slightly punk, but wholly intelligent employee actually batted her heavily made-up eyes at Brent. “Whatever you want to be gross, stud muffin.”
Rayne mimicked Meg’s gagging action from a moment ago, making Henry laugh. She’d tried hard to overcome her strange feelings toward Brent over the past two days, treating him as she would any other employee. Though his gorgeousness made it plainly difficult to accomplish. After all, he’d taken his shirt off this morning inspiring Meg to use the word yummy way too often. The man had to stop taking his clothes off. Had to. “Do you have Pop-Tarts, Mr. Hamilton?” Henry asked, sliding off the stool beside the kitchen island.
“I may have some cinnamon-brown sugar ones left over from the baseball sleepover,” he said eyeing the tomato-basil soup on the stove.
“Wait. You have a baseball team?” Henry’s eyes lit up with interest. Rayne felt her mom radar start beeping.
“I don’t have one. I coach one,” Brent said. Rayne could tell he wasn’t paying attention to his words. He was staring at the oat-bran muffins she’d made with the stone-ground wheat. He obviously had no idea what he’d done. How he’d unleashed a monster, one Rayne would have to deal with.
“Can I be on the team? I’m good. I promise. When I played with the Bengals, I hit it over the fence two times.” Henry parked himself at Brent’s boots and looked at him expectantly.
Shoot.
“Henry, Mr. Hamilton already has a team. We talked about this,” Rayne said, brushing her hands on her apron and preparing for battle. Meg wisely started flipping through whatever catalogs she’d lugged in. She knew the power of Henry’s will.
“Henry can still play. Hunter Todd broke his arm doing cartwheels on the bleachers, so now we’re a player short. We have practice tonight at six if he wants to come along,” Brent said as he slid closer to the muffins. Rayne had sprinkled them with homemade granola so they looked even more tempting than the average oat muffin.
But she didn’t have time to offer him a sample of her testing ground muffins. Her son had taken to whooping, “Yes!” over and over again.
Rayne jabbed Brent in the arm. “You gotta fix this. He can’t play ball this year.”
Brent finally ripped his attention from the food. “Fix what? Why not?”
Henry whooped once more, performing several fist pumps, before tearing out of the kitchen and pounding up the stairs. Rayne knew where he was heading. He’d dig his glove from the drawer she’d relegated it to yesterday. Then he’d pull all his shorts from the bottom drawer to look for his baseball pants. Then he’d bring her the cleats to untie because they were double-knotted and he couldn’t pull them loose with the stubby nails he habitually bit to the quick. Hurricane Henry had set his path, but he’d forgotten that landfall wouldn’t happen without her permission.
And she wasn’t giving it.
Rayne glared at the daft man before her. She tried not to notice how damn good he looked in his tight jeans and the T-shirt he’d finally pulled on. How his shaggy hair looked salon-tousled. How he hadn’t bothered to shave that morning which gave him a bed-rumpled, lazy movie star look. Hell, no. She wasn’t noticing because he’d created a big problem and he had no clue.
“Henry can’t
