course.”
She started coffee and then he appeared in the kitchen. He’d obviously washed his face since the hair above his forehead was damp. A droplet of water clung to one eyelash. He looked oddly adorable and she felt more like his mother than a date as she led him to the front door once he’d refused once more to stay for coffee.
“Why don’t you come to my office tomorrow? I could show you around and then show you my books which are, I admit, a bit of a mess.”
“Certainly. I could do that.”
“I’ll even buy you lunch. You haven’t lived until you’ve tried Chelsea Hammond’s lasagna.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
She opened the door as he leaned in to kiss her cheek.
“Good morning,” a cheerful male voice boomed out from the other side of the open doorway.
Ron’s lips hadn’t even reached her cheek before darting off again.
Oh, horror of horrors. If there was one person in all the world she wouldn’t have wanted to know about her little escapade, it would have to be the man currently striding up her front walk with a box in his arms. She said the first thing she thought of. “What are you doing here?”
“Delivering a bridesmaid gown.” He nodded to the man standing awkwardly by her side. “Not for me, you understand.”
“Of course.”
She and Ron stood rooted foolishly in her front doorway. The day was overcast and cold. A light frost covered the ground. Dexter removed one of his driving gloves and held out his hand to Ron. “Dexter Crane, delivery boy.”
Automatically, the men shook hands. “Ron Turgison, CPA,” the befuddled man beside her replied.
“Ah, a good man to have around.”
Another beat passed. Finally, she reached for the box Dex was holding and at the same time Ron said, “Well, goodbye. I’ll call you.”
He left and Dexter walked into her house without an invitation. “Now that’s nice. A man should always call after he spends the night at a woman’s place. Good manners.”
“Would you drop the Cary Grant act?” She put her head in the hand that wasn’t holding the box. “This is so not what it looks like.”
“No?” Dexter said mildly. “It looked pretty clear to me.”
The sheer enormity of trying to explain what had just happened was too much for an uncaffeinated woman to handle. “I need coffee. Before I speak, I need coffee.”
He followed her.
When she reached the living room she discovered the television was still on. She’d somehow slept through an entire night of late-night, even later-night, after-late, late shows and infomercials and early, early, early shows without ever waking. She put the dress box down and picked up the remote to snap off the TV.
She stomped into the kitchen and then snapped, “Why are you delivering things to my house at seven-thirty in the morning?”
“The slick answer is that Andrew surprised Sophie with a first-class plane ticket to Italy. She sends her apologies, she won’t be able to make your meeting. However, she picked up a sample of the bridesmaid dress in New York for you to match flowers and things. Since I had to come back to Philly, she asked me to deliver the dress.” He stuck both gloves in the pocket of his overcoat, slipped it off and laid it over the back of one of her kitchen chairs. It was too long and the gray wool bunched on the tile floor. “The honest answer of course is that I wanted to see you.”
And she supposed he’d come early enough that they could indulge in a pre-work quickie. Except that he’d found another man leaving her house as he was arriving. What a mess.
She shouldn’t be embarrassed. She was a single woman. Why shouldn’t she have men coming and going at all hours? But she did feel foolish. “I never should have slept with you again,” she snapped.
“Pour the coffee. You’re never at your best before the first cup.”
“Stop reminding me that you know me so well.”
“But I do,” he said softly. He didn’t sound irate or angry, but she could tell he was waiting for the explanation she’d promised him.
As she turned to pour coffee, she wished she were at least wearing her heels and didn’t look as disheveled as she was certain a mirror would confirm. She poured two mugs of coffee, adding milk only to hers, milk and sugar to Dex’s as she knew he liked it.
She pushed the mug at him and drank her own gratefully. Then she caught his gaze. If anything he was looking slightly amused.
“Let’s sit down. I can’t stand you towering above me.”
They sat at her kitchen table since she didn’t even want to think about what had happened when they’d sat side by side on the stools at her counter.
She said, “Ron’s a guy I met online.” She glanced up and then down at her coffee. “He’s nice.”
Still Dexter didn’t say a word.
“We went out for dinner last night and then we came back here to watch the late show. I know it sounds unbelievable, but we both fell asleep watching TV. We’d just woken up when you got here.” She traced her finger over the handle of her green pottery coffee mug. “I didn’t sleep with him.”
“Thank you for telling me,” he said and sipped from his matching green mug. “You still make the best coffee of anyone I know. Maybe it’s the beans. I should find out from you where you get them.”
Coffee beans? He wanted to talk about coffee beans? What kind of emotional game playing was this?
“Dexter, I’m telling you the truth. I know it looks like Ron and I spent the night together—” She stopped, realizing they had in fact spent the night together. “I mean, had sex, but we didn’t.”
“Yes. You said that. I heard you.”
Irritation, completely irrational but red-hot, geysered through her. “Fine. Don’t believe me. I don’t know why I bothered trying to explain anything. Forget it. Think whatever you want.”
A hand, long-fingered and strong, came to rest on hers where it lay fisted on the tabletop. He squeezed her fingers, causing her to look up and meet his gaze. To her astonishment, he smiled at her, with warmth and humor. His hand felt warm and comforting enclosing her own.
“Here’s the part where I get to give you a little lecture, for your own good, and you get to listen.”
If it was anything about safe sex she was going to hit him over the head with her coffee mug, she decided, tensing.
“Maybe nine out of ten men would see a man with really bad bed-head leaving your house at seven-thirty in the morning and figure you’d spent the night doing more than watch Craig Ferguson—”
“Jimmy
