Melting the Ice(57)

            After two hours of poring over numbers, she was satisfied they were on track.

            Her phone buzzed.

            Drew.

            She picked it up and pushed the button.

            “Hi, Drew.”

            “Hey, yourself. How’s it going?”

            “Busy. How about you?”

            “Finally back in town.”

            “Away games?”

            “So, you haven’t been watching?”

            “I’m sorry. I’ve been a little distracted lately. How did it go?”

            “Buzz me up and I’ll tell you.”

            “You’re downstairs?”

            “Yeah.”

            She rolled her eyes and headed to the door. “What if I hadn’t been here?” She pressed the buzzer.

            “Then I’d have gone out to dinner alone. Hanging up now.”

            And now he expected her to just drop everything and go to dinner with him? That was ballsy. And more than a little annoying.

            She opened the door and waited for him to show up, which he did a minute later, looking gorgeous as always in relaxed jeans and a navy blue peacoat. He even wore a scarf. Damn, but the man was infuriating, attractive as hell and even worse, he dressed well.

            Other than his arrogant attitude, she had nothing to pick apart.

            He stepped in and looked around, zeroing in on her coffee table. “Paperwork explosion?”

            “Something like that. Would you like to take your coat off?”

            “No. I’m starving. I thought maybe you’d want to get dinner.”

            “I’m kind of busy. And it’s eight thirty.”

            His lips curved. “You’re always busy. So you ate already?”

            “I did. Hours ago.”

            “That’s fine. I’ll just go grab something.”

            “No. Don’t leave. I can fix you something.” He was here and she didn’t want him to leave. She wanted to get him in her clothes and back out of her apartment again.

            He cocked a brow. “You cook?”

            “I cook.”

            “Great.” He took off his coat and hung it up, then followed her into the kitchen.

            “What would you like?”

            “I don’t know. How about some eggs?”

            She wrinkled her nose. “I hate eggs. I don’t even keep them in the house.”

            “That’s like . . . un-American, Carolina. Everyone likes eggs.”

            “No, everyone doesn’t. I don’t.”

            “Fine. What do you have?”

            “How about some chicken? I made it for dinner and have some left.”

            “That’ll work.”

            She took out the chicken and rice she’d baked earlier and warmed it in the microwave.

            “Something to drink?”