Sway With Me(35)

After spending the entire day scrubbing, polishing, and cleaning, the kitchen sparkled like new. The room was comfy and warm despite its immense size. Once she saved enough money, she’d add a soft, cushy couch and coffee table in front of the fireplace. Then, when she ate breakfast, she wouldn’t have to feel so alone at the kitchen table. She imagined herself drinking coffee and eating toast while wrapped in a wool blanket as she read Sunday’s New York Times. Normally, the image would warm her from the inside out and provide her with a sense of security she’d never known. But today, the image left her feeling . . . empty. Owning a house was a dream come true, so why did she feel as though something was missing?

Right on time, Ryan sauntered into the kitchen holding a bottle of wine in one hand, and her entire being lit up with anticipation. She took a deep breath and tried not to blush.

Barefooted and wearing a light blue Henley and jeans, he stopped in the archway of the room and his jaw dropped. “It looks completely different. How did you do it?”

The counters and appliances gleamed. She’d hung pots and pans from the ceiling and placed a beautiful Tuscan bowl on the counter filled with apples collected from their trees. Thanks to keeping the windows open all day, gone was the smell of fish, and in its place were the smells of a Michigan autumn—burnt leaves, apples, and cinnamon. The table was set with clean dishes and linens, and she’d placed a couple of lit candles in the center.



Pride filled her as she took in all her hard work, but she shrugged as if it were nothing. “Bleach.”

He strode toward her with intent in his eyes. Her heart pounded and something which felt like small soft wings fluttered between her legs. Was he going to kiss her again? Could she resist him?

Stopping in front of her, he bent his head slightly and she sucked in a shuddered breath. His lips feathered across her cheek. “Thank you,” he said softly. He stepped back a bit and whipped out a bunch of fresh flowers hidden behind his back. “These are for you.”

Her heart squeezed as she took the red roses and orange tulips from his outstretched hand and clutched them to her chest. It was the most beautiful bouquet of flowers she’d ever received. And although she’d danced in dozens of productions throughout the years, it was also the first bouquet she’d ever received.

“Thank you. They’re beautiful.”

“Not as beautiful as you,” he said, staring at her mouth.

She swallowed the large lump which formed in her throat. “Are you hungry? I’ve made chicken and salad.”

“Starving.” His gaze pinned her against the counter, trapping her like his prey.

Delicious heat spread from her neck down to her toes as if he caressed her with his stare, creating a dull ache in her breasts and a tingling between her legs. Unable to stop herself, she moved closer to him, drawn by some invisible force stronger than the both of them. Eyes locked on one another, she curled her hand behind his neck. His hair was wet from a recent shower and he smelled like soap. She couldn’t take her gaze from his lips as she gently pulled his head down and waited to taste him.



He coughed and his eyes narrowed, breaking their connection to look at something across the room. “Should the oven be smoking?”

Sure enough, clouds of smoke drifted out from the top of the oven. “Crap. The chicken!”

She tossed the flowers on the counter and grabbed the oven mitts then ran to the oven. Smoke billowed in her face when she opened the appliance and pulled out the pan. Dropping it on top of the stove, she waved away the smoke to inspect their dinner. The air cleared to reveal two charred breasts of what used to be chicken.

Ryan stood right behind her and peered over her shoulder to look down at their dinner. “Maybe we could take the skin off?”

She shook her head. “It burned straight through. I don’t understand it! It’s only been in the oven for forty-five minutes at three hundred and seventy-five degrees.”

His hand clamped down on her shoulder in reassurance. “If I had to guess, I’d say the oven is incorrectly calibrated. Either that, or the chicken committed suicide.”

She snorted. Covering her mortified face with an oven mitt, she lifted the pan and slid it down the counter, dumping the entire thing, pan included, into the garbage.

She put a smile on her face and pivoted to Ryan. “I hope you like salad.”

He laced his fingers with hers and squeezed. “It’s my favorite. Come on. Sit down and I’ll get us a couple glasses of wine. I hope you don’t mind, I couldn’t afford anything of quality, so I bought—”

“I’m sure whatever you bought is great.” She took him up on his offer and sat at the table.