Page 62 of Second Time Around
She opened the mammoth refrigerator and pulled out a beer for him and a soda for herself. While a beer or wine might take the edge off her nerves, she didn’t want it to weaken her defenses. She needed to keep her guard up tonight, especially with him looking so hot in his apron and cooking for her.
“I’ve got chilled mugs in the freezer,” he said as he spread another layer of barbeque sauce on the chicken.
“You really thought of everything.”
“I tried to.”
She brought out the mugs and set them beside the plates that were already on the table. She noticed he’d set them side by side, and while his back was turned, she moved one of the place settings so there was a space between them.
“Can you put out the salad too?” he asked as he transferred the potatoes from a pan into a bowl.
“On it.”
He popped his head up and gave her a smoldering look.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“It was something,” she said as she bent into the refrigerator for the salad.
She’d worn jeans to work today—the same jeans she’d worn when he’d been at her house two weeks ago. She might have done it on purpose, as she’d noticed how he’d eyed her in them. Today she’d paired them with a flowy blouse and ankle boots instead of her usual sneakers.
She pulled out the salad and caught him staring at her. “What’s up?”
He scratched the back of his neck, which she recognized as his nervous tell.
“Nothing.”
She set the salad on the table, and then he came over with the bowl of potatoes.
“Is there something wrong with what I’m wearing?” she asked.
“Of course not. I just thought you usually wore skirts to work.”
“I usually do, but today I chose jeans. Is that a problem?”
He scratched his neck again. “No. No problem.” Then he went around the kitchen island to get the chicken, which he’d also transferred onto a plate.
She was still standing there when he returned, flummoxed by his behavior.
“Have a seat,” he offered. Then he glanced down at the table and said, “You moved the plates.”
“They were too close,” she said as she sat down.
He shook his head and then sat down too.
The food looked and smelled wonderful, but she was too uptight to eat. “Maybe I should leave,” she said.
He frowned at her. “You can’t leave.”
“Why not? You don’t seem very comfortable with me here.”
He heaved a sigh. “You’re the one who moved the plates.”
“I told you this was a bad idea,” she huffed. She started to push her chair back, but Beck shot out a hand and clamped it over hers on the table.
“Don’t go.”
