The Things She Says(33)

“Um, maybe dark was better,” she blurted and smacked her forehead. Shut up.

“I disagree. I like that tousled look on you.”

He disappeared into his room and returned covered up by a shirt and she stifled a sigh. Well, the image of his bare back was emblazoned across her retinas like lightning forking through the sky, shirt or no shirt. In what world did someone so charismatic and finely built end up behind the camera?

“I’ll order us something. I haven’t eaten, either,” he said as he settled back onto the couch as if nothing had happened. Nothing had happened, but she was still frozen four feet from her door.

It was just dinner. She’d eaten two other meals with Kris. But neither of those meals had taken place behind closed doors while she wore nothing other than a big towel.

“Sit down.” He nodded to the empty cushion a quarter inch from his thigh and picked up the phone from the end table. “You’re not bothering me. Really.”

You’re bothering me.

Cautiously, she edged onto the couch—the other couch—and tugged the robe up around her neck as a flimsy barrier.

The tranquil sage and deep purples artfully strewn about the suite invited her to relax, to enjoy the rare reprieve from taking care of Daddy and her brothers, but the oasis had no effect on her goose bumps. Or the grasshoppers in her stomach. This was entirely too intimate, and she had no business being here with an almost-engaged man.

Even if he wasn’t going to marry Kyla. Especially if he wasn’t.

Nothing good ever happened after midnight. This was the time of night when Cinderella was still hobbling home, minus a shoe and toting a fourteen-pound pumpkin. Good Baptists were in bed. Asleep.

They sat in edgy silence for an eternity.

“I’ve been wondering,” he said, startling her out of a fantasy where she’d stripped him of all his clothes and straddled him, still wearing the robe, but loosening the sash enough for it to slip off one shoulder.

“Hmm?”

“What’s stage six?”

Her heart stumbled over a beat. “I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

“What’s wrong with now?”

Where should she start counting all the reasons why not now? “It’s late, and you’re working.”

“I’m done. Why are you sitting way over there?”

“I like this couch. It’s comfortable. That one is too small for two people. With your long legs and all.” God, she was babbling.

“My legs aren’t on the couch.”

He sounded amused, and why wouldn’t he be? She was laughably inexperienced at sitting around in the half-light of a bustling urban city with a sophisticated man almost engaged to someone else.

“What’s stage six?” he asked again, and merciful heaven, a knock at the door signaled the arrival of dinner. She sprang for the door before he could move.

A white-coated waiter stood in the hall with a rolling cart, staring at her expectantly. Kris materialized behind her, pressing the length of his taut frame against hers, leaning into it. Her breath rattled in her throat as the shock of awareness, the heat of his body, thrummed through her.

Then Kris gently guided her from the doorway to allow the waiter to roll the cart inside. Her breath rushed out in a sigh. She’d been in the way. That’s all. This roller coaster of hope and dashed hope was getting ridiculous.

Ridiculous because she shouldn’t have any hopes except to get her life settled and move on.

Kris tipped the waiter and moved the dishes from the dining area to the low coffee table shared by the couches. “Is this okay? I hate eating formally. Reminds me too much of when I lived with my parents.”

“Sure.” She wasn’t going to be able to swallow anything anyway. Then he lifted the metal cover from one of the plates. Fried chicken. She almost laughed, until the meaty smell of it weakened her knees. Okay, so she’d eat a little something.

Five pieces later, she couldn’t shove anything else in her mouth with a pitchfork.

Kris reclined on the floor opposite her, licking his fingers, and she avoided another stray glance at his tongue. Too late. Heat gathered in her core as she recalled the way he’d devoured her at the top of the Ferris wheel. He’d done something wicked with his mouth, drawing her tongue into it and sucking, but she’d felt it between her legs simultaneously.

“Is it tomorrow yet?” he asked, and she glanced at him.

He was watching her, his eyelids low and sexy as if well sated after a good, hard roll in silk sheets. Why did he have to be so hot?

“It’ll be dawn soon. I guess that makes it tomorrow.”

“Then what’s stage six?”

“What’s the fascination with stage six?”