Her fingers locked loosely behind his neck, she raised her eyebrows. “Didn't I tell you I would?”
“Yeah, well, people say things like that and then change their minds.”
“I don't,” she said, and pulled his mouth back to hers.
He had kissed plenty of women before, though perhaps not as many as some men his age could claim. What was so different about kissing Lucy? Why was the taste of her lips so memorable, the feel of her body so perfect against his? If simply kissing her was this good, he could only imagine how spectacular making love with her would be.
“The electricity is back,” Lucy murmured when Banner finally lifted his head for oxygen.
“Oh, yeah,” he muttered, still feeling the energy coursing through his veins.
She laughed. “I meant that your power lines have been repaired.”
Banner blinked and cleared his throat. “I knew what you meant.”
The look she gave him then was a bit too knowing. “Maybe you could make that tea?”
Feeling as awkward and nervous as a randy schoolboy, Banner let his arms fall to his sides. “Yeah. Sure. Uh…”
Still smiling, she moved to the sink to fill the kettle.
Lucy had been a little nervous when she had pulled into Banner's driveway, a bit concerned about what she would see in his eyes when he spotted her. Operating on a hunch, she hadn't even bothered knocking on his front door, but had walked straight to his workshop.
She had been somewhat disconcerted when his first words to her had been a lecture about shop safety. But when he had suddenly, rather humorously, realized she was back, his expression had been gratifyingly dazed. And when he had kissed her…well, suffice it to say those kisses had left no doubt in her mind that he was glad she had returned.
It was just as obvious that he had no idea what to do with her.
He sat grimly silent across the table as they sipped their tea. Even though the house was centrally heated now, the hot beverage still felt good in comparison to the crisp cold air outside. Lucy cradled the warm mug between her hands and studied Banner through her lashes.
“How's your work coming?” she asked. “Have you finished the order you were working on?”
“Almost. A few minor things left to do.”
“Then what?”
“Then I start working on another order.”
“It sounds as if you're doing well.”
He shrugged. “I have my regular customers who keep me busy.”
They had talked about his work before, of course. Lucy could think of nothing new to ask him about it just now, which meant that line of conversation had come to an end.
Banner made an effort to find a new topic. “How was your visit with your family?”
“It was great. I really enjoyed seeing everyone.”
“Your father is well?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“I'm, uh, happy to hear that.”
She couldn't help but laugh then. He was trying so hard to make innocuous small talk-and he was so very bad at it.
Her amusement made him scowl. “You're laughing at me.”
“I'm laughing at us,” she corrected him. “We're being so very proper and polite.”
His frown deepened. “I told you I'm not good at this. Talking to people, I mean.”
“Maybe we should go back to twenty questions. I think it's your turn. You have-what?-thirteen questions to go?”
“Fifteen,” he replied automatically. “The last one I asked you was your middle name. You're the one with thirteen to go.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “You do have a good memory.”
“Yes,” he replied simply. “I do, actually. I remember every question we asked-and the answers.”
Which meant he was fully aware that she had been asking about his ex-wife when her impromptu game had ended. She would have to be a bit more careful with her questioning this time, but she still intended to find out as much about him as he would allow.
It seemed to her that the best way to start was to let him take the lead. “So, if you were to ask a sixth question about me, what would it be?”
“Why are you here?” he asked without even taking a moment to think about it.
She set her empty mug on the table. “Is that one of those existential, philosophical questions? Like what is the meaning of life?”
The look he gave her chided her for the deliberate misinterpretation. “You know what I meant.”
“Why did I come back?”
He nodded.
“You already know the answer to that one. I came back because I like you and I wanted to spend more time with you. I was rather hoping you felt the same way?”
It wasn't officially a question, she assured herself, but she lifted her voice at the end to encourage him to reply.
Instead, he nodded toward her mug. “Want some more tea? Something to eat, maybe?”
“No, to both questions, which, I assume, don't count toward your official twenty.”
He smiled a little at that. “I was just trying to be a good host.”
“You
As always, the compliment seemed to make him uncomfortable. “Do you have any hobbies?”
She grinned, knowing he had blurted out the first question that popped into his mind as a way to turn the subject away from him again. “A few. I love to read. I enjoy dancing. I play piano fairly well. And I play golf. Badly.”
He grunted. “I tried golf a few times. It was bad for my character.”
Amused, she asked, “In what way?”
“Ruined my language. I used cuss words I wasn't aware that I knew. How the hell is anyone supposed to put a ball that small into a little hole that far away? Football-now that's a sport. A big ball you can tuck into your arm and run with. Or basketball, maybe. At least the basket's right over your head, not half a mile away.”
“Do you play football or basketball?”
“I'm what you might call an armchair athlete. Catch the games on TV.”
She couldn't help running a slow, assessing look down his lean, muscular frame. “You must do something physical to stay in shape.”
He shifted in his chair, looking self-conscious. “I run a little.”
“More than a little, I think.”
“Five or six miles a day when the weather's nice. I'm not one of those guys who runs in rain or snow.”
“Whatever you're doing, it works for you.”
A hint of color crept up from the collar of his flannel shirt. “Could we change the subject now?”
Every time she turned the subject to him, he grew uncomfortable. So many men she encountered couldn't talk about anything except themselves. Did Banner really have so little conceit?
“Of course. Do you like to dance?” she asked him, thinking of how nicely she seemed to fit into his arms-even if he was nearly a foot taller.
“Is that one of your official questions?”
“Number eight, isn't it?”
“Close enough. And the answer is that I don't know how to dance. I doubt that I would be any good at it.”
“Surely you've danced a few times.”
He shook his head. “Nope. Never found myself in a position where I had to try.”
“School dances? Weddings?”
“Never attended any school dances. Only been to a couple of weddings, and neither one had dancing. Mine was
