Everywhere and Every Way
Page 33
“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“Not a problem, I just don’t want to get all touchy-feely about it. You want a chip?”
He held out the bag like Satan tempting Eve, and her fingers grabbed it. “Yes. Thanks. Just one.”
“How’s the Hilton?”
The first crunch almost made her moan. Ah, dear God, they were sour cream and onion! What did he say? “Nice. Luxurious. Of course, room service and eating out gets old, but I’m used to it.”
He stretched out long jean-clad legs. “So, basically, you don’t have any type of home base?”
“I thought about buying a condo or a studio in Manhattan, but it doesn’t make sense. I average six months in a place, sometimes less, and I can’t have a bunch of different properties scattered. Hotels are more convenient, and I only stay in the penthouse. Not much to complain about.”
She felt his gaze on her, but she concentrated on the chips. “Do you miss having a home?”
The question was like a bowling ball demolishing all twelve pins in a strike. Her insides took the hit, but she refused to let the emotions show on her face. Her gut screamed the truth. Yes. She wanted a home of her own, a sanctuary that was hers alone. A place no one else could tell her what to do or how to do it. Someplace she could cook and watch TV in flannel pajamas and crank the music really loud and dance like no one watched, because no one could. But she didn’t utter any of those words. There was no point. Morgan loved her career and what she’d accomplished, and certain things needed to be sacrificed. Her parents had given her a solid home base she hoped she’d have for her own one day, on her terms.
“How can I complain about never doing laundry, cleaning, or cooking? That would make me completely ungrateful and selfish.”
“No,” he said softly. “It would just make you human.”
She stilled. His masculine presence pressed down around her like humid air, wrapping her up in a tight hug. She realized his muscular leg was pressed against hers as they sat. His arm brushed hers. His scent filled her nostrils, musk and sweat and soap and skin. All male, all him, all real and raw. Her stomach did a slow flip, and her fingers tightened around the bag.
A dangerous hum of attraction hung between them. Afraid to look into his eyes and be trapped there forever, Morgan drew in a shaky breath, but the energy was too much, and she turned her head, ready to take the tumble.
Suddenly the bag was ripped away from her.
“You ate all the chips.”
She blinked, and just like that the spell was broken. Morgan didn’t know if she was relieved or annoyed. “I only ate a quarter,” she pointed out. “You owe me at least five more.”
He peered into the bag and looked at her outstretched hand. “Hell no. I’m bigger and need more salt content than you. Besides, I’m doing you a favor.”
She lifted a brow. “How?”
He stuffed a bunch in his mouth and chewed without remorse. “Don’t women complain of bloating and stuff when they eat chips?”
Her mouth dropped open. Oh, hell no. He hadn’t gone there. Had he? “Did you just put the words women and bloating together in the same sentence and expect to live?”
He paused, looking a tiny bit wary. “Stop trying to scare me. I’m trying to be nice.”
She gave a cackle and jumped to her feet. “I’d hate to see what you’re like when you’re mean, Charming. Oh, BTW, watch the love handles.”
He spit out the chips and jerked his chin up. “What?”
Morgan slid her palms down to cup the famous part where the extra fat settled. Not that he had any, but damned if she’d let him off the hook. “Love handles. Right here. You know, that part a woman grabs when she’s having sex with—”
“I know what love handles are, dammit! Are you saying I have them?”
She tamped down on her amusement and relied on her brutal, cold, businesslike efficiency to make her final jab. Her gaze fell upon Cal’s tight stomach and swept over lean hips that had a lot less flab than hers. Oh well. She liked her body and her curves and rarely apologized. If any man wasn’t turned on by her form, she happily told them to keep on trucking and find a skinny-assed model. Besides, he’d already seen her practically naked and seemed to like what was on display. She ignored the dip of her belly and how badly she wanted a rerun of that night. “Ummm, no. Of course not.” With perfect delivery, she landed the knockout punch. “But I think you may be right. I’ll skip the chips.”
His blistering curse was the perfect backdrop.
She got back to work.
chapter nine
Cal stood in the middle of Blossom & Company, one of the customized lighting and accent stores in Harrington, known for its uniqueness, quality, and of course, price.
After a brutal workday, they’d taken an hour to change and regroup before heading into town. Cal wasn’t a complainer, but shopping for home decor was so much more Tristan, who actually gave a shit if a lamp was placed in a certain room for atmosphere, style, and correct shadowing. Him? A lamp gave light, and that was good enough.
Still, after Morgan had gone and put in a longer day than one of his guys, he was keeping his mouth shut. They’d stopped for a lobster roll, and he’d followed her obediently into the home warehouse, planning to be helpful and polite and home in time to put the baseball game on.
That was two hours ago, and his original intention had gone AWOL.
Now? Yeah, he was just cranky and bored out of his mind.
“What do you think of this?” she asked. He wished the damn store served alcohol rather than sparkling froufrou water. He took in the beaded, fringy thing that looked like it should be from the seventies.
“What is it?”
She sighed. “A lamp.”
He crinkled his brow and poked at it. “Where does the bulb go?”
“You hang it upside down and it gives the impression of a chandelier. See, I’d like to get it for the bathroom but wanted to get your take. Is it possible to make it work?”
Cal blinked. “We usually install the fan in the bathroom. Won’t this fabric part get moldy from the steam? And why would anyone want a weird green thing hanging in front of the toilet?”
Maybe that was the wrong thing to say. Seemed like she didn’t want his advice on how the thing looked, just how it could be installed. “It’s vintage. I’m going with an antique-looking type of bathroom. Claw-foot tub. Tapestry. This would be perfect, and no, I don’t want a fan in the bathroom.”
“Not a problem, I just don’t want to get all touchy-feely about it. You want a chip?”
He held out the bag like Satan tempting Eve, and her fingers grabbed it. “Yes. Thanks. Just one.”
“How’s the Hilton?”
The first crunch almost made her moan. Ah, dear God, they were sour cream and onion! What did he say? “Nice. Luxurious. Of course, room service and eating out gets old, but I’m used to it.”
He stretched out long jean-clad legs. “So, basically, you don’t have any type of home base?”
“I thought about buying a condo or a studio in Manhattan, but it doesn’t make sense. I average six months in a place, sometimes less, and I can’t have a bunch of different properties scattered. Hotels are more convenient, and I only stay in the penthouse. Not much to complain about.”
She felt his gaze on her, but she concentrated on the chips. “Do you miss having a home?”
The question was like a bowling ball demolishing all twelve pins in a strike. Her insides took the hit, but she refused to let the emotions show on her face. Her gut screamed the truth. Yes. She wanted a home of her own, a sanctuary that was hers alone. A place no one else could tell her what to do or how to do it. Someplace she could cook and watch TV in flannel pajamas and crank the music really loud and dance like no one watched, because no one could. But she didn’t utter any of those words. There was no point. Morgan loved her career and what she’d accomplished, and certain things needed to be sacrificed. Her parents had given her a solid home base she hoped she’d have for her own one day, on her terms.
“How can I complain about never doing laundry, cleaning, or cooking? That would make me completely ungrateful and selfish.”
“No,” he said softly. “It would just make you human.”
She stilled. His masculine presence pressed down around her like humid air, wrapping her up in a tight hug. She realized his muscular leg was pressed against hers as they sat. His arm brushed hers. His scent filled her nostrils, musk and sweat and soap and skin. All male, all him, all real and raw. Her stomach did a slow flip, and her fingers tightened around the bag.
A dangerous hum of attraction hung between them. Afraid to look into his eyes and be trapped there forever, Morgan drew in a shaky breath, but the energy was too much, and she turned her head, ready to take the tumble.
Suddenly the bag was ripped away from her.
“You ate all the chips.”
She blinked, and just like that the spell was broken. Morgan didn’t know if she was relieved or annoyed. “I only ate a quarter,” she pointed out. “You owe me at least five more.”
He peered into the bag and looked at her outstretched hand. “Hell no. I’m bigger and need more salt content than you. Besides, I’m doing you a favor.”
She lifted a brow. “How?”
He stuffed a bunch in his mouth and chewed without remorse. “Don’t women complain of bloating and stuff when they eat chips?”
Her mouth dropped open. Oh, hell no. He hadn’t gone there. Had he? “Did you just put the words women and bloating together in the same sentence and expect to live?”
He paused, looking a tiny bit wary. “Stop trying to scare me. I’m trying to be nice.”
She gave a cackle and jumped to her feet. “I’d hate to see what you’re like when you’re mean, Charming. Oh, BTW, watch the love handles.”
He spit out the chips and jerked his chin up. “What?”
Morgan slid her palms down to cup the famous part where the extra fat settled. Not that he had any, but damned if she’d let him off the hook. “Love handles. Right here. You know, that part a woman grabs when she’s having sex with—”
“I know what love handles are, dammit! Are you saying I have them?”
She tamped down on her amusement and relied on her brutal, cold, businesslike efficiency to make her final jab. Her gaze fell upon Cal’s tight stomach and swept over lean hips that had a lot less flab than hers. Oh well. She liked her body and her curves and rarely apologized. If any man wasn’t turned on by her form, she happily told them to keep on trucking and find a skinny-assed model. Besides, he’d already seen her practically naked and seemed to like what was on display. She ignored the dip of her belly and how badly she wanted a rerun of that night. “Ummm, no. Of course not.” With perfect delivery, she landed the knockout punch. “But I think you may be right. I’ll skip the chips.”
His blistering curse was the perfect backdrop.
She got back to work.
chapter nine
Cal stood in the middle of Blossom & Company, one of the customized lighting and accent stores in Harrington, known for its uniqueness, quality, and of course, price.
After a brutal workday, they’d taken an hour to change and regroup before heading into town. Cal wasn’t a complainer, but shopping for home decor was so much more Tristan, who actually gave a shit if a lamp was placed in a certain room for atmosphere, style, and correct shadowing. Him? A lamp gave light, and that was good enough.
Still, after Morgan had gone and put in a longer day than one of his guys, he was keeping his mouth shut. They’d stopped for a lobster roll, and he’d followed her obediently into the home warehouse, planning to be helpful and polite and home in time to put the baseball game on.
That was two hours ago, and his original intention had gone AWOL.
Now? Yeah, he was just cranky and bored out of his mind.
“What do you think of this?” she asked. He wished the damn store served alcohol rather than sparkling froufrou water. He took in the beaded, fringy thing that looked like it should be from the seventies.
“What is it?”
She sighed. “A lamp.”
He crinkled his brow and poked at it. “Where does the bulb go?”
“You hang it upside down and it gives the impression of a chandelier. See, I’d like to get it for the bathroom but wanted to get your take. Is it possible to make it work?”
Cal blinked. “We usually install the fan in the bathroom. Won’t this fabric part get moldy from the steam? And why would anyone want a weird green thing hanging in front of the toilet?”
Maybe that was the wrong thing to say. Seemed like she didn’t want his advice on how the thing looked, just how it could be installed. “It’s vintage. I’m going with an antique-looking type of bathroom. Claw-foot tub. Tapestry. This would be perfect, and no, I don’t want a fan in the bathroom.”
