“Is it?” He lifted a dark brow at her.
She blinked. “Now what is that supposed to mean?”
He shrugged. “Nothing.”
Untrue and she knew it. It was very much something. She could see it in his eyes.
But before she could open her mouth to pursue the issue, he spoke again. “Will you have dinner with me?”
There was only one answer to that one. “I’d love to.”
“Where would you like to go?”
He sounded so…formal. As if she was some stranger.
It came to her that she didn’t want to go and sit in a restaurant with him. Surrounded by other people, she wouldn’t feel she could really talk to him. And she needed that, to feel free to talk. This new distance between them scared her a little. She wanted, with all her heart, to bridge it.
And then again, was this feeling of distance really all that surprising? They’d found a rare and thrilling intimacy, just the two of them, in the museum. But she had to remember that they’d known each other less than a week. The attraction had been immediate and the forced proximity had made it possible for them to grow close very fast.
And then he’d returned to his life and she’d gone back to hers.
No. She had to expect that things would be a little awkward, now they found themselves face-to-face again at last.
She intended to eliminate the awkwardness, to break down any and all barriers between them. That would be easier if they were alone.
“Tell you what? Let’s just go to my place. How about fried chicken and oven-browned red potatoes, would that be all right?”
He frowned. “You’re sure?”
She stepped back, a half laugh escaping her. “Justin. What’s not to be sure of?”
He hesitated a moment longer. But finally, he agreed. “Well, all right, then. Let’s go.”
Chapter Eleven
“Big place,” Justin said, when Katie ushered him into a high-ceilinged foyer, where a walnut staircase rose gracefully from the far end, curving upward toward the second floor.
She set her purse on the long marble table by the door and turned to knock the breath out of him with a glowing smile. “It was in bad shape when I bought it, but I’ve had a lot of work done. It was built in 1910, by the owner of the town dry goods store. Cedar Street used to be where all the town merchants lived. A lot of them were well-to-do.”
“Clearly.” Beneath his boots, the fine, old wood of the parquet floor gave off a polished shine in the glow from the antique light fixture overhead. Carved walnut moldings crowned the walls.
She teased, “Take a good look around. Just in case you’re thinking of making me an offer.” He met those brown eyes again and a shock of sensual awareness ricocheted through him.
He wanted to grab her and carry her up the curving staircase, to find a nice, big bed up there and never let her out of it. “I’m tempted,” he muttered, and they both knew damn well he wasn’t talking about her house.
He ached. All over. His damn skin felt too tight. He had only himself to blame for the state he was in. Not only for starting up with her in the first place, but for not taking care of his physical needs since he’d left her on Tuesday.
There were a couple of women he knew: willing, bright, beautiful women, who didn’t expect—or even want—anything beyond a nice evening and a good time in bed. But he hadn’t been able to make himself pick up the phone and call one of them.
His body burned for the satisfaction he hadn’t allowed himself to take four nights ago in that big, old bed in the museum. But he’d done nothing to ease the ache. The thought of touching some other woman for the sake of a much-needed release…
It made him feel vaguely ill.
His mistake. To add to all the others. He should have at least taken a few minutes in the shower to get the edge off, but he hadn’t even had sense enough to do that.
Somehow, he couldn’t. He wanted Katie. His body wanted Katie. Only Katie.
Though he knew damn well he was never going to have her.
“Oh, Justin…” Her voice was so soft, like the rest of her. His arms itched to hold her. With monumental effort, he kept his hands at his sides. She seemed to shake herself and then, shyly, she offered, “May I take your jacket?”
He shrugged out of it and handed it over. She hung it on the antique claw-footed rack by the door, along with her heavy coat. Then she turned to him again, those amber eyes alight, her smile so bright it could chase away the darkness of the blackest night.
Damn. He was gone. Gone, gone, gone. He kept trying to remember why he’d come here, what he needed to say to her. He should say it.
And go.
But he said nothing as she gestured toward a door at the back, past the foot of that impressive staircase. “This way…” He fell in behind her and she led him to a big kitchen with acres of granite-topped counters and cherrywood cabinets fronted in beveled glass. “Have a seat.” She nodded toward the cherry table in the breakfast area. “I’ll get the dinner started.”
He didn’t want to sit there at the table while she bustled around across a jut of counter fifteen feet away. “Let me help.”
“Well, sure.” She was already at the sink, washing her hands. “If you want to…”
He followed her lead at the sink and then turned to watch her as she tied on an apron, set the oven and began assembling the stuff she needed. He scrubbed the potatoes for her. She cut them into quarters and shook spices on them, then drizzled them with olive oil and stirred them with a wooden spoon.
In spite of the constant, burning ache to grab her and hold her, to kiss her and feel her body go soft and warm and achingly willing against his, in spite of the nagging awareness that he had a grim purpose here and once he accomplished it, he’d have to walk out the door.
And never see her again.
In spite of all of it, a strange sort of peace settled on him, just to be there, with her, in the big, well-appointed kitchen, handing her a spoon or an oven mitt when she asked for it, watching as she prepared their meal.
She battered the chicken, her soft mouth curved in a happy smile. “So. What have you been up to since we broke out of the museum Tuesday?”
He told her how busy he’d been, catching up, getting back on top of the job again. As he talked, she put the chicken on to fry and checked the potatoes.
As she shut the oven door, she asked, “How about some wine?”
“Sounds good.”
She went to the chef-quality fridge and brought out a bottle of Pinot Grigio. “Do the honors?”
He opened the wine and poured them each a glass. Then she started on the salad, keeping an eye on the chicken as she worked, and chattering away about the happenings at the library, about the Historical Society meeting she’d held on Wednesday.
“There was much concern over how the storm had ruined our ‘wedding reception.’ The society members were hoping the event would generate a few generous donations.”
“Understandable. Did you tell them how grateful we were that they left all those sandwiches—and what they’re collecting for a rummage sale?”
“I didn’t,” she confessed. “But I guess I should have.”
He knocked back a big slug of the excellent wine to keep himself from flinging the glass to the hardwood floor and hauling her into his arms. “Speaking of the rummage sale, I