It was an almost perfect plan. She showered and washed her underwear, hanging them over the edge of the shower rail, then pulled on her jeans and sweater without – it was obvious she wasn’t wearing a bra and the thought might have kept her hiding out in the room until her undies were dry again, but she was starving, and determined to avoid him.
Tiptoeing down the stairs, she paused at the bottom, looking in every direction to make sure he wasn’t nearby. Then, stealthily, she crept forward, pausing at each door, listening for the slightest sound before scurrying past. She knew she must look ridiculous, but so what?
Better to avoid him altogether than be mortified in an unexpected confrontation. It was the kitchen she knew she had to be careful with. She listened at the doors for a long time – and there was silence. Good. Perfect. When she was sure that silence meant he wasn’t in the room, she pushed the doors inwards and stepped inside, looking around quickly and releasing a huge, pent-up breath at the sight of an obviously empty kitchen.
It was such a beautiful space, she felt true remorse to have to avoid it for the day – and the foreseeable future! – but she wouldn’t risk another confrontation. Not after the way she’d behaved. Her lips tingled and she lifted her fingers as a gasp escaped, memories slamming into her of the way he’d felt, the way his mouth had pressed to hers, demanding, taking, insisting.
Her knees went shaky and she spun towards the window, bracing her palms on the kitchen bench in an attempt to support her suddenly tremulous body.
It was then that she heard the whooshing of the doors. Oh, crap. She squeezed her eyes shut, sucking in a deep breath in an attempt to fortify herself before turning around.
“Coffee?”
The question was the last thing she’d expected. It was so normal. So completely, utterly pedestrian that for a second she wondered if perhaps she had imagined the kiss after all? Maybe it had all been a dream?
But, no. When she spun around and looked at Gabe, she saw him as he’d been then, she felt every inch of him against her; it was all the confirmation she needed.
It didn’t help that his shirt was off, revealing his inked chest and biceps, leaving very little to the imagination. Tattoos covered his biceps and shoulders, all the way down to his rock-hard abs. There were pictures as well as words, intricate drawings that she ached to understand; tattoos that would, she was sure, tell a story. Her pulse went haywire and she struggled to swallow with a suddenly desert dry throat.
“I just came in to grab some food.”
A single dark brow lifted. “Is that a ‘no’?”
Her eyes darted to the machine and despite the embarrassment still engulfing her, she lifted her shoulders. “I have a rule never to say ‘no’ to coffee. Especially not in the morning.”
His response was a quick flick of his lips, something very close to a smile. Her pulse throbbed and she took a step away from him, nearer to the machine. “I’ll make it.”
“It’s my turn,” he demurred, striding to the fridge and removing a bottle of milk, then flicking the switch on the grinder. The smell of coffee filled the air and she sucked in a breath.
Isabella backed up a little, propping her hip against the edge of the counter, watching as he filled the coffee basket, his movements confident and lithe, the simple act of making coffee one he evidently did often, and yet watching it, Isabella felt as though it were one of the most beautiful things in the world. Without a shirt, there was a hyper-masculinity to the act. She wanted to film him – such beauty should be trapped in some way, kept for posterity, not allowed to pass unnoticed and unappreciated.
“Coffee with milk,” he said, as he finished up, lifting the mug and holding it towards her, without standing, so that she had to push away from the bench and cross the distance towards him. Almost toe to toe, the memories of last night were impossible to ignore. She lifted a hand, gingerly reaching for the cup to avoid touching him, but he didn’t relinquish his grip. With the cup held between them, each with a hand on its ceramic bowl, their eyes met, and a silent challenge passed from him to her.
She didn’t understand. She couldn’t answer it, couldn’t hide from it. She bit down on her lip, uncertainty washing over her.
“I watched some of your videos last night.”
It was the very last thing she expected him to say. Her eyes widened, her features showing surprise.
“Oh.”
His lips compressed as though he were fighting himself, battling with the words he was saying and his ever-present desire to push her away.
“What did you think?” She was asking for a compliment, and she hated herself for that, but her battered ego needed something from this behemoth of a man.
His knowing smile showed that he understood what she was asking of him.
“I think vegan moussaka sounds like an oxymoron.”
She let out a small laugh. “It was a viewer request.”
“You’re not vegan.”
“Heck, no.”
“Good.”
It wasn’t the approval she’d been hoping for but it didn’t matter. The small word still burst through her like sunshine on a frigid day. It relaxed her too, so she found herself blinking up at him and feeling more like equals and even friends, rather than strangers.
“I’m sorry about last night.”
His demeanour immediately shifted. His features tightened, his chest seemed to grow bigger and broader. “Are you?”
It was something else she hadn’t expected.
“Are you sorry for kissing me?” He prompted, and the same challenge in his eyes made it impossible for her to lie.
She didn’t want to lie, but she didn’t know how to answer that. Because even though she’d woken with a sense of shame and mortification licking the soles of her feet, she couldn’t say
