And then another entirely different emotion surfaced. Whose heart was he breaking tonight? Because that’s the kind of man he was, right?
She was confused. If she was honest with herself, Callum had never seemed like the serial heartbreaker type. He’d always struck Ava as a solid, dependable, protective man. He’d held doors open for Lulu. Taken her away to exotic locations for holidays: Bali, Paris, the Maldives, New York and Rio.
And if he was such a serial womaniser and heartbreaker, how come he was the one all alone while Lulu had moved on with the very normal Michael? His suddenly single status had catapulted him right to the top of Sydney’s eligible bachelor list, not that Ava ever paid much attention to that kind of gossip. He was a catch: handsome as hell; a house like this; and clearly in possession of kitchen skills, judging by the smell of something irresistible.
She blew out a breath and pressed a hand to her stomach to stop it rumbling. Then she tugged off her work socks, now gritted with dirt from walking around in his numerous dirt gardens, and walked across the room. ‘I’ve got all I need, Callum,’ she called. ‘I’ll get back to you with some preliminary sketches in the next few days and then we’ll take it from there.’
‘Thanks, that sounds good,’ he called from the stove, where he seemed to be doing something elaborate to food in a sizzling wok. ‘Take a seat.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I said, take a seat. Dinner’s ready.’
Ava gripped her socks hard and the grit that was caught up in the fibres pressed against her fingers. ‘What did you say?’
‘Please tell me you like to eat.’ He looked back at her over his shoulder and smiled. He was probably used to that smile getting him whatever he wanted. Bastard. It probably worked.
‘Oh, I like to eat,’ Ava reassured him. ‘But I don’t want to intrude.’
‘You’re not intruding. Turns out I have enough food for two and more than enough wine. Since you’re already here, maybe we can discuss what you have in mind for the gardens.’ Callum turned off the stove and tipped the contents of the wok onto a white platter.
‘Sure.’ As Ava watched him, her traitorous heart began to pound in her chest.
When had a consultation turned into chatting?
When had chatting turned into talking?
And when exactly had talking turned into dinner?
Her appetite warred with her good sense. She spent half her life covered in dirt and the other half schmoozing. She considered this schmoozing. And he was a client after all.
Callum wiped his hands on a tea towel, and looked her up and down. She noticed, and judging by the lift of his eyebrows, he noticed that she noticed. ‘The bathroom’s up the hallway to the left if you want to clean up.’
He reached a hand up and worked his index finger between the leather strap of her bag and her shoulder. She stiffened. He lifted it from her and held it in his hand. She didn’t know what the hell she smelled like—probably sweat and soil and fertiliser—but up this close to him, she realised he smelled good. There was pine and citrus and something else in the mix, which obviously meant that when he’d gone up to his bedroom to change, he spritzed himself with some aftershave. Why did she like the idea that he had? A close inspection of his jaw revealed that he hadn’t shaved though, and Ava’s eyes drifted to his mouth, his full lips, one end of which were tugged up in a half smile.
‘I need to wash my hands,’ she said, distractedly.
Automatically, Ava brought them together in front of her to study the dirt that always lingered there, and she hadn’t realised how close their bodies were. Her fingers brushed against his flat belly. She held her breath. Callum looked down.
‘You do,’ he said.
‘It’s an occupational hazard,’ she said on a whisper, thrillingly aware of how close he was. ‘I always have dirty hands.’
‘What’s that saying?’ he asked, his voice low and teasing now. ‘Dirty hands, warm heart?’
‘I think that’s cold hands, warm heart.’
Callum clearly decided to look for himself. He grasped her fingers in both hands, and lifted them closer to his face to look. His thumbs rubbed over her nails, her cuticles, her knuckles. His fingers smoothed their way into the middle of her palm. It was so soft and felt so intimate and then, right there and then, she was on fire. Her hands were right in line with his pecs, just a push away, and goddamn how she wanted to splay her hands there and lean into him; snake her arms around him and pull him into her, push herself against his body and open her mouth to him.
‘Yep. Cold hands,’ he said.