Sugar on the Edge(18)
Gavin releases his hold on my face and turns away from me, heading back to the staircase. “Use a broom,” he orders. “And I’ll be ready to eat dinner around seven.”
“But… you don’t have anything in your refrigerator or cupboards other than ravioli and molded cheese,” I lament.
“Then I suggest a trip to the grocer to buy something. I have money in my wallet beside my bed,” he says, leaping up the staircase two steps at a time. In just a few seconds, I hear his office door open and slam shut, and I’m left behind with my heart still pounding and my hands shaking.
Giving a last toss to the shrimp stir-fry, I turn the gas off and place a cover over the wok. Reaching into the refrigerator, I grab a bottle of water, taking a small measure of pride in the contents. In addition to buying stuff for his dinner, I took the liberty of buying more lunchmeats along with some vegetables I cut up and put in Ziploc bags for him to munch on. I also made a quick tuna casserole that he can pop in the oven tomorrow night and a Mexican casserole for the following night. At least he wouldn’t starve to death before I got back on Friday, and it makes me feel better because he’s overpaying me.
His footsteps on the staircase alert me to his impending presence and suddenly, I’m nervous. What seemed like a nice gesture to prepare a few meals for him seems to now be stepping across a line that maybe I should steer clear of. But it’s too late now to worry about it.
I hastily turn to the cabinets and pull out a plate, then rummage in a drawer for a knife and fork. Pulling a paper towel off the rack, I have it folded and sitting under the cutlery by the time he walks into the kitchen.
“Something smells delicious,” he says, and every bit of anger and animosity, as well as intimate danger he showed me earlier, is gone. He’s dressed same as he was, in a pair of faded jeans and an olive green T-shirt that fits his upper body well. His feet are bare and his hair dark hair is slightly disheveled. I’m not sure if it’s the five o’clock shadow he’s sporting, or his smoky gray eyes, but he looks dark, dangerous, and utterly freakin’ gorgeous. Add on that silky, smooth British accent, and he’s what you’d call a classic panty-melter. That is, if he kept his condescending, cranky mouth shut, which would then obviate the sexy accent. Still, his looks alone would make a woman twitchy and damp.
I walk over to my purse on the kitchen counter and grab it, rustling around inside for my keys. Keeping my eyes averted from his, I say, “That’s a shrimp stir-fry in the wok and there’s some rice in the pot next to it. I um… left you a few other things in the fridge.”
Heading for the front door, I hear him open the refrigerator. “What’s all this?”
Turning around, I bring my gaze to his and he looks confused. So I elucidate. “I made you a few casseroles. Instructions are taped to the top on how to cook it. That will hold you over until Friday.”
I reach for the doorknob, but he stops me. “Why don’t you stay… eat dinner with me?”
My jaw sags a little, completely caught off guard. This was the guy that was manhandling and cursing at me a few hours ago, and now he’s inviting me to eat with him?
“Um… I really should get home,” I hedge, because it just feels totally awkward to share a meal with this man.
Gavin walks over to the stove and lifts the lid off the wok. He takes a sniff and his lips curve upward. Turning to me, he says, “Stay. This is way too much food for just me.”
My eyes dart around the room, my brain frantically trying to come up with an excuse to decline his invitation. He doesn’t wait for me though, reaching into the cabinet and grabbing another plate. “Come on. I don’t bite,” he cajoles.
“No, you just threaten and intimidate,” I mutter softly.
“I heard that,” he says with a grin.
I can’t help the smile I give in return and with a sigh, I drop my purse to the floor by the front door. Walking back into the kitchen, I take a seat at the kitchen island and watch as Gavin fills my plate up. He grabs a fork and knife from the drawer, handing it across the counter to me.
“What’s with the nice act all of a sudden?” I can’t help but ask. I figured if I could call him an asshole earlier and retain my job, he wouldn’t be too perturbed over that question.
Shrugging his shoulders, Gavin fills his plate up and walks around the counter to sit beside me. “I guess I had a great day writing, despite the caterwauling noises you were making earlier.”
My cheeks heat, but he’s opened the door to my own curiosity. I had Googled Gavin a few days ago, and was surprised to find he was a New York Times best-selling author. His first book, Killing the Tides, was a huge, international success and sounded so intriguing, I one-clicked that bad boy for my Kindle.