her cheek to her jawline and nudged her chin up. His thumb brushed against her moist lower lip, tugging it open.
“Is this what you want?” he asked. He inched closer to her, a little surprised when she actually swayed toward him, instead of shying away.
“Yes.”
Her bare knee brushed against his jeans, her foot nudged his. He glanced down. The simple intimacy of the touch, her bare foot against his sock, struck him. Her perfect, pampered foot nuzzled up against his dirty work sock.
He dropped his hand from her face and stepped back, angry with himself for wanting what he couldn’t have. And with her for making him want it.
“That’s why you called me, isn’t it? That’s why you needed me to come over right away?”
She blinked, her eyes wide with surprise, and maybe confusion. “No.” Her no wasn’t forceful enough to convince even herself. “Maybe.”
“You don’t really want to have your kitchen remodeled, do you?”
Her gaze shifted nervously from his. “No. I just…” She took in a noticeably shaky breath and pressed her palm to the countertop as if she needed something to hold her up. “I just thought…”
“What? That it would be fun to jump in the sack with the manual laborer?”
“No!” Her spine stiffened.
“Then what?”
“It’s complicated,” she insisted, her voice now firm. “This was obviously a mistake.”
“Right. Obviously.” He ripped the top page out of his notepad and crumpled it into a ball. “Did it ever occur to you that this is my job? This is how I make my living?”
She arched one perfect eyebrow. “Did it ever occur to you that I might honestly have wanted just a date? That not every woman wants to jump in the sack with you?”
If he hadn’t been so angry, he might have laughed at her bravado. From the way her voice stumbled, he’d be willing to bet good money she’d never used the phrase “jump in the sack” before in her life.
“Not interested, huh?” Before she could protest, he wrapped his hands around her arms, pulled her to him and kissed her.
He told himself he was doing it to prove a point.
But the second he felt her body against his, he knew he’d lied. The only point he wanted to prove was that she was as kissable as she looked. Man, was she ever.
Her lips were warm and smooth beneath his. She tasted like red wine, which surprised him, because he would have sworn she was the kind of woman who drank white wine.
When her tongue darted out to brush against his lips, surprise was the least of his reactions. Hot, aching desire hit him hard in the gut.
Abruptly he pushed her away. She looked as shell-shocked as he felt. She pressed her fingertips to her mouth, glaring at him.
“That was rude,” she finally said.
He laughed out loud, gathering up his notepad and measuring tape before heading for the door. “It’s rude to kiss someone who’s clearly asking for it, but not rude to interrupt the middle of someone’s workday and waste their time?”
She trotted after him. “I didn’t think you would mind. I—”
He spun back around to face her. “Well, I do. Apparently you have nothing better to do on a Friday afternoon but jerk people around. But I’ve got work to do.” She flinched as if stung by his criticism, but he didn’t stop. As he shoved first one foot and then the other into his boots and tugged them on, he continued. “Real work, princess. Not imaginary work that bored debutantes make up because they want a playmate. Work I’ll get paid for.”
“You don’t think I work?”
Shaking his head at her indignation—her indignation!—he snapped, “I don’t care whether or not you work. I don’t care if you’re bored or lonely or horny or whatever it is that made you decide you wanted someone to come over and play. I care that you’re wasting my time. Goodbye, princess.”
AND WITH THAT, he was gone. The door slammed behind him hard enough to actually rattle the windows.
For a second she stood there, fuming at the closed door and shooting angry glares around the empty foyer. Then she propped her hands on her hips and said—to no one in particular, “You are the last man I’d invite to come over and play, even if I was bored or lonely or—” she sputtered, then forced herself to say the word “—horny. Which I am not.”
Except she was.
It was as if her body had come alive again at Alex’s touch. And as if it had gone through electric shock treatments at his kiss.
She felt hot and tingly. Exposed.
She spun on her heel and stomped to the kitchen where she poured herself another glass of wine. She sipped it slowly, making sure she was perfectly calm before taking the last sip. Then she carefully poured herself some more, even though what she really wanted to do was to throw the goblet to the floor.
Halfway through the glass, she set the crystal aside, propped her elbows on the countertop and buried her head in her hands.
How in the world had that gone so wrong?
How had she so drastically underestimated how she’d respond to him? She’d just wanted to see him again. To size up his potential as a “Passionate Fling-ee.” Instead he’d made her all googly-eyed and she’d practically attacked him. No wonder he’d gotten the wrong impression.
He was a different person than he’d been in high school. Taller, for one thing. And he’d lost some of his wiry thinness. Now, he was lean, but muscular. Powerful. And so handsome, it made her ache.
One thing was sure. Seeing him answered the question of whether or not he still got to her. From the moment she’d opened the door, she’d felt his pull deep in her gut.
When he’d asked her what she’d wanted, her mind had just gone blank. She’d wanted him. Some part of her had always wanted him.
And now he’d probably never talk to her again, which was going to make apologizing very difficult.
She straightened and turned around. Propping her back against the counter, she reached for her glass of wine. From the corner of her eye, she saw the crumpled ball of paper Alex had tossed aside.
She picked it up then flattened it with her hand to work out the wrinkles. There was a black-ink sketch of her kitchen, surprisingly accurate, with measurements written on the side in Alex’s masculine handwriting.
The seriousness with which he’d approached the project only humiliated her. Shaking her head at her own stupidity, she carefully folded the note in quarters.
Yep, she owed Alex an apology. And if she knew him half as well as she thought she did—
No, scratch that. She clearly didn’t know him at all. But she suspected
