Luke frowned and pushed the thought to the back of his mind, concentrating instead on tidying up the table. He took the cups away, then sorted through the papers. One of them was a pamphlet about a degree in fine arts at the local university, and there were several asterisks beside the list of courses offered. Luke frowned. She’d mentioned wanting to be an artist the night before. And having a glass studio, of all things.
“I’m not the only one who’s nosy, I see.”
He turned to find Marisa standing at his elbow, her gaze on the pamphlet in his hands. Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders in a glorious chaos of golden curls, and she was wearing a simple dark-blue top as soft and as silky as her hair. She had her skinny jeans on again, ones that seemed to hug and highlight all her luscious curves, and her feet were bare. Except for the glittery turquoise nail polish on her toes.
She looked beautiful and free and wild. Dangerous.
Perhaps she’d been safer in her Chinese silk robe.
“What’s this about?” He gestured at the pamphlet.
“And how, pray, is that any of your business?”
“It’s expensive. A fine arts degree costs—”
“You think I don’t know that?” She whipped the piece of paper out of his hand.
Luke studied her. Was that flush on her cheekbones embarrassment? “There’s no need to get defensive.”
“I’m not getting defensive.”
“Yes, you are. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to do this degree. In fact, if you move in with me, you’ll be able to do it faster with all the money you can save on rent.”
She bit her lip. “Yeah, but I haven’t made any decisions yet.”
“I told you what I wanted last night.”
“Yes. What you wanted. I still don’t know if it’s what I want.”
Frustration coiled inside him. This wasn’t off to the best of start, though why that should surprise him he didn’t know. It wasn’t as if anything was easy when it came to Marisa.
“Sit down,” he said, trying to make it sound less like a command and more like a request. “I’ll bring in the breakfast. Then we’ll discuss it.”
He brought out the food and set it on the table, pouring the coffee for himself and the special hand-squeezed orange juice for her.
She glared at the glass sitting on the table. “I want coffee.”
“Excess coffee in pregnancy leads to low birth weight.”
Her nose wrinkled. “Awww, come on. One coffee isn’t going to hurt. Anyway, if you want me sociable, not to mention biddable, you’ll find it much easier if I’ve had at least one hit of caffeine.”
Compromise. That appeared to be the way to go with Marisa Clair. More’s the pity. “One coffee,” he allowed.
Five minutes later, Marisa nursed her coffee and nibbled on a croissant slathered with honey while he again set out his plan for her and the baby. “Living with me is going to give your savings a major boost,” he said. “And don’t forget you’ve got my financial services for six months, remember?”
“Hmmmm.” Marisa broke off the end of her croissant and put it in her mouth. Her fingertips were shiny with butter, little flakes of pastry sticking to them. And he had the sudden urge to lick them clean.
Annoyed with himself and the way she seemed to get under his skin just by eating, he put his knife and fork down neatly on his plate. “What does ‘hmmmm’ mean?”
“It means I’m thinking about it. You really eat a croissant with a knife and fork?”
“What? How is the way I eat relevant?”
“Why not use your hands?”
“Using a knife and fork is more orderly. And it means I don’t have to wipe my fingers. Saves time.”
“Orderly, right.” She broke off the other end of her croissant. “It seems a little extreme, though. There you are in your jeans and your T-shirt, eating your croissant with utensils.”
The tension in his shoulders tightened. No one made fun of him these days, not the way they had when he was at school. And if she was going to start…
“Here,” she said, holding out the other end of her croissant to him, “try this.”
“What do you mean?”
She waved the croissant at him. “Go on, eat it. You won’t even have to wipe your fingers.”
“I don’t understand your point.”
“Maybe I want to see you relax.”
“Why?”
She sighed. “Don’t you ever want to, Luke? For a second?”
He shifted the napkin on his lap. “Not particularly.” He couldn’t, not even for a second, not that he could tell her that.