of you.”
She looked up. “Huh?”
“Last night. I didn’t take advantage of you.”
She peered at him, momentarily taken aback by his admission. He looked so…apologetic.
“I, uh, was tired.” He rubbed that spot on his leg again. “Had been up for hours. Days, actually.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Honest to God, I thought I was dreaming. I’d never take advantage of a woman.”
Dreaming. He thought he was dreaming. It had nothing to do with me. She plastered on a smile. “Do’t worry,” she said, forcing herself to sound upbeat, confident.
“What’s Ralph’s number?” Donovan stood, dangling the empty coffee mug off one finger.
Blaine started to look at his face, but all that body was in the way. Her gaze did a slow tour up his jean-clad legs, past that midriff, which underneath that T-shirt she knew to be tight, muscled, and covered with a wild mass of hair.
Finally, she reached his face—solid, angled—and peered into those soft brown eyes. Funny, back in the bedroom, when their conversation had been tense, those eyes had been a turbulent brown—like a dirty, churning river during a winter deluge.
Now they spilled light, the muddy brown shifting to a whiskey color.
“Ralph’s number?” he repeated.
“Od my desk.” Jerome had called her at work and left it. She’d jotted it on one of her sticky notes.
Donovan headed toward the kitchen. “Is he listed?”
She couldn’t remember Ralph’s last name. “My friend who sold me da bed has da numbbb—” she blew out an exasperated breath, tired of being so damn clogged up “—number.” There, she got the word out.
“Got your friend’s number?”
Blaine looked at those whiskey eyes. This was a man who took care of business, no matter what was churning inside of him. She could relate to that. “Sure,” she answered.
A few minutes later, after talking briefly with Jerome, Donovan was punching in Ralph’s number on a kitchen wall phone, its blue color dull, its receiver scarred with what looked to be a burn mark. But old, usable things seemed to be Donovan’s style. The old, torn plaid recliner. Makeshift bookshelf, really a carefully arranged assortment of old cement bricks and two-by-fours.
Donovan glanced at her where she sat perched on a plastic kitchen chair, which she’d guessed was formerly someone’s patio furniture. “I think he owes us one free delivery.”
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