by Tami Lund
“I haven’t gone grocery shopping in a while,” she admitted. Honestly, she didn’t shop all that often anyway, and Duane’s presence had been a pretty big distraction lately.
“I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess you use one of those services that drops the groceries at your front door.”
“So?” If she sounded a tad defensive, well, maybe she was. Even though there was nothing wrong with having someone else do your shopping for you. If there was, those services wouldn’t exist.
“Okay, I’m going to make a list, and then you’re going to order everything on that list. In the meantime, where would you like me to grab takeout for dinner?”
“I can handle this on my own.”
“No, you can’t. And if you don’t tell me what you want, I’m ordering from that Italian place we passed on the way here.”
“Oh God, they have the best eggplant parmesan.” Her mouth was watering just thinking about the decadent deliciousness.
“You think that only because you haven’t had mine.” He scribbled something on a pad that he’d unearthed from somewhere and then pulled out his phone. “Okay, one order of eggplant parm. And I think I’ll get the lasagna.” He paused. “Is it good?”
She nodded, too shocked to do anything else. Like tell him to stop taking care of her.
“Okay, done. It’ll be ready for me to pick it up in thirty minutes. And there’s a bottle of Sangiovese in your wine cooler that will be excellent with this meal.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the kitchen and then to the deck. “You don’t strike me as someone who eats in her living room, but we need to sit somewhere that’s comfortable for you, and I don’t think those barstools at the kitchen counter are going to cut it with you unable to bend your knee. I can get you set up outside and then run and grab the food if you want.”
She wanted, although she didn’t want to admit it. But yes, sitting outside on a beautiful, sunny, summer evening was one of her favorite parts of the day. “That’s fine,” she said through gritted teeth.
“You don’t like asking for help, do you?”
“Why do you say that?” Even though it was true.
“I thought it was a being in charge thing, but it’s a dislike of asking for help. That’s why you think being injured equates with being weak. Because it means you need help.”
She crossed her arms and tried really hard not to pout, although she was probably failing miserably. “I do like being in charge as well.”
He spread his arms wide. “You can totally be in charge. Command me at your will.”
Why the hell did that sound so inviting? And so sexual? The guy wasn’t hitting on her.
Was he?
“Okay, here we go.” He scanned the notepad in his hand one more time and then handed it to her. “Here’s your grocery list.”
She accepted the paper and started to read it but was distracted when he slipped his hands underneath her and lifted her into his arms. She gave a little squawk and, without thinking, clasped her fingers behind his neck.
And then she couldn’t stop thinking. About those bulging and flexing muscles holding her up with no real strain, as if she weighed little more than a few pounds.
About his crystal clear, blue eyes behind lids lowered to half-mast—eyes that were more focused on her than on making his way outside to settle her in one of the cushioned deck chairs.
Bedroom eyes.
About the stubble coating his cheeks and chin, which was short enough not to be classified as a full beard, yet long enough that it was probably soft.
She wanted to scrape her fingers along his cheek and down his throat.
About his lips, which were full and red and slightly pursed, like maybe he wanted to kiss her as badly as she suddenly wanted to feel them pressed against her.
“Where do you want to sit?” he asked, breaking her concentration, which was good, because had she actually been leaning closer to him while thinking about his lips?
“That one.” She pointed at her favorite place to relax.
The deck ran from one end of her condo to the other and curved in the middle, a design she’d requested so that she could add a bed of colorful flowers. On one end, there was a wrought iron bistro table and two chairs, which was where she normally drank her morning coffee and checked her email before heading into the office.
The other end was shaded by a giant maple tree and a pergola that was draped with purple morning glories. Two plush lounge chairs rested side by side with a small table in between, overlooking the golf course. She rarely had guests, but it had felt weird only having one chair; plus, they had come as a package deal.
Now she was glad for the decision to set up both out here, since that was where Elliot deposited her, and she presumed that once he returned with dinner, he was going to join her.
“Do you want a glass of wine or water or something?” he asked.
“Wine would be nice, thank you.”
“See? That wasn’t so bad.”
She scowled. His chuckle chased him as he disappeared into the house and returned in short order with a nearly full glass of burgundy liquid. He was certainly generous with his pours.
“Okay, order those groceries. I’m going to swing by my house to grab my stuff, and then I’ll get our food and be back as quickly as I can. Oh, wait, give me your phone.”
She did, without hesitation, and then was annoyed at herself. Sure, he’d nailed it when he guessed that she didn’t like asking for help, but neither did she like being ordered around, and this man sure was doing a whole lot of both things at the moment.
“Here.” He handed her phone back. “That’s my number. If you need anything while I’m gone, call me. See you in a bit. And don’t forget to order those groceries.”
He sure was concerned about her food supply.
Which, she realized after he left—in her car—was because he planned to partake of said supply. It was evident based on what he’d put on this list. T-bone steaks. Whiskey. Breakfast sausage patties. A whole lot of fresh vegetables. Spices she’d never even heard of.
She supposed, if she were the type to look for a silver lining, in this case it would be that she was likely going to eat well while Elliot Bryant was in her life.
Living.
In her space.
She took a gulp of wine.
This was not going to end well.
Chapter Five
Elliot sucked in great, gasping breaths of the wind whipping in through the open window and gave serious consideration to pulling over and rubbing one out, in an attempt to help move his brain back onto his shoulders, where it belonged.
The way Amelia had been looking at him as he carried her outside—Christ, a woman had never looked at him like that, not ever. Granted, he’d only had one serious girlfriend, but he’d slept around plenty since he and Maddy called it quits, and a lot of the sex had been damned enjoyable.
Yet he’d never felt such a rush as that look had given him.
He swore she wanted to kiss him, and it hadn’t been his imagination that she’d been leaning in to do just that. It was all he could do to get the hell out of there to grab their food. Mostly, just to get the hell out of there for a minute.
He should not have offered to move in with her. Stupidest gut reaction yet, in a lifetime of pretty unimpressive decisions.
But what the hell was she supposed to do? She couldn’t get around by herself, and she clearly hated to ask for help from anyone. Anyone except him, that was. He had no idea why she was comfortable enough to give herself over to him, but he did know one thing: he liked taking care of her.
It was an odd sensation because, to be honest, he’d never taken care of anyone other than himself in his entire life. And frankly, he’d not even done that. His parents were happy to pay his way through college and had no problem letting him continue to live at home, rent-free. His brothers and now sisters-in-law were constantly mothering him. They all claimed they wanted hi
m to get his act together and grow up, yet none of them actually encouraged him to do so.
Camila leaving him at Gerard Glass to find his own way home had been the closest any of them had ever come to letting him figure it out on his own.
Okay, he managed to get to Mom and Dad’s without busting a nut, so that was good, right? Now, he needed to get in, pack an overnight bag, and get out again before one of his parents started asking too many questions. Number one being, “Where are you going?”
Since the garage door was closed and the dog would go nuts if he entered through the front door, he headed around back to slip in through the patio doors. It would be the quietest entrance. Maybe he could get in and out without them even realizing he was there.
Rounding the corner, he walked up on his parents, in the pool, doing things no child of any age should ever see his own parents doing.
He slapped his hand over his eyes. “Oh my God, I’ve just gone blind!”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Elliot, how in the world do you think you and your brothers came along?”
“We were conceived in the pool? All four of us?”
“I’m pretty sure you were conceived when we took that ski vacation and left the other three with your grandparents. Remember, that, Joe?” Mom said conversationally.
“I don’t need to know this.”
“Stop being such a prude,” his mother chastised. “You’re never going to meet the right girl with that attitude.”
How did knowing where he’d been conceived have anything at all to do with his inability to find the right girl? And anyway, it wasn’t an inability so much as it simply wasn’t a priority. It had taken him a long time to get over Maddy, and he wasn’t in a hurry for a repeat performance.
He pointed at the house and quickly shielded his eyes again. Should’ve used the other hand, damn it. “I’m going inside, getting a few things, and then taking off again. I have someplace to be in about ten minutes.”
“Where? With whom?” Mom asked.
“Nowhere. A friend.”
“A girlfriend?”
“A friend.” Hell, could he even call Amelia that? He was bending over backward to make her as comfortable as possible, and she hadn’t even agreed to letting him stay with her—or hiring him, actually. He needed to get that confirmation out of her as soon as he returned. Sure, it would be nice to be gainfully employed again, but, mostly, he wanted to have the access to ensure the place didn’t go down in flames while she was out of the office.
“I think the friend is a girl, Joe,” Mom said.
“How did you come to that conclusion?” Elliot asked.
“Because I know all your friends, and you’d just say, ‘I’m hanging out with Bob or Bill or Frank.’”
“I don’t have any friends named Bob, Bill, or Frank.”
“You know what I mean. And anyway, my point is, you’d tell me the name of the friend if it was just a friend.”
“She really is just a friend, Mom. Actually, I’m not even sure she’s that at this point.”
“Oh, do tell.”
“No. I’m not telling you anything. I’m going inside and packing my stuff and I’m leaving. Through the front door.”
As he headed toward the house, he heard his mother say to his father, “Did he say he’s packing his stuff? Do you think he’s moving in with this girl who’s not quite a friend? Does that mean what I think it means?”
He was curious as to what she thought that really meant, but not curious enough to stop and turn around and cop an eyeful of naked parents.
After slipping down to the basement and snagging the shortest of several pairs of crutches they’d accumulated over the years, Elliot stuffed a few necessities into a duffle and grabbed a handful of button-down shirts, slacks, and a pile of ties from his closet. Then he snagged his camera equipment and made a beeline for the front door, grateful that his parents were apparently still out back, not that he wanted to think about the activities they had likely resumed. But neither did he want to explain why he was taking the crutches and his camera bag. Given his mother’s eagle eye, she’d also want to know why he was taking so many clothes.
The doctor in urgent care had said Amelia’s recovery could take anywhere from a week to a month or longer, so he wanted to be prepared for at least the bare minimum. Not that he was interested in telling his mother this. She’d jump to way too many conclusions, way too fast.
After a quick stop to pick up dinner, Elliot returned to Amelia’s condo, the insanely cool ride tucked safely in its spot in the garage. He headed inside, dropped his clothes and camera bag on the couch, and went straight out back.
Amelia glanced up when he stepped onto the deck, and the worried look in her eye made him damn near drop the food in his haste to get to her side.
“What’s wrong?” He scanned her body, looking for signs of pain and finding—other than the wrapped knee—nothing but smooth, unblemished skin that practically begged him to drag his hand over it, just to verify his suspicions, of course.
Her gaze darted to the side, and a rosy blush spread across her chest and climbed up her neck to her cheeks.
“What is it?” he demanded.
She finally blew out a breath and said, “I have to use the bathroom.”
“Oh.” The relief was so palpable, he damn near dropped the food again. Instead, he placed it on the small table between the two chairs. “Okay, let’s get you up.”
As he reached for her, he noticed that her wineglass was empty. “That explains.”
“I’m not used to sitting around doing nothing,” she argued as she allowed him to lift her into his arms. She was probably eagerly looking forward to the day when she could walk on her own, but he kind of liked having to carry her everywhere. It gave him an excuse to touch her without coming off like he might be interested in being more than not-quite-friends.
She directed him to a half bath that was near the front door. “Do you need help?” he asked, knowing—and hoping—she’d say no, even if she actually did. He couldn’t decide if, in this circumstance, it was a blessing or a curse to need to sit down to pee.
“I’ll figure it out.” She closed the door, and he leaned against the wall to wait, in case she actually did need assistance. Hell, it might cool his increasingly stronger attraction if he had to help her pee.
He needed to figure something out, because they definitely should not go there. Too much was at stake. If they slept together and then something happened and she kicked him out, she’d be left alone to deal with her bum knee, which wasn’t fair.
There was a ripping sound and then a thud, followed by a shriek, and Elliot crashed through the door, heedless of what he was probably running in on, and almost desperately relieved when he found her sitting on the floor next to the toilet, fully clothed and looking disgruntled but not injured.
Still, he asked. “Are you okay?”
She clutched a circular item in her hand, and there was a gaping hole in the wall next to the sink.
“I’ll probably have a few additional bruises, but I didn’t make the knee worse, which is all I really care about.” She lifted the thing in her hand to eye level, shook her head, and tossed it into the trash can.
“What was that?”
“The towel ring. I tried to use it to leverage myself off the toilet. Obviously, I need to lose a few pounds.”
“I’m pretty sure those things are designed to hold maybe a pound or two at most. And this may sound like a dumb question, but why are you fully dressed if you were sitting on the toilet?”
She sighed. “I was done. I managed to get my shorts back up, but I couldn’t get to my feet so I could wash my hands. I grabbed the ring, and the rest is history.”
“Okay. How about if I help you with that?” He bent at the knees, grabbed her around the waist, and pulled her up, then turned her around to face the sink and held her there while she washed and dried her hands.
“This is so humiliating.”
&n
bsp; “It’s kind of badass, actually. I’ve never felt so useful in my entire life.”
She snorted and then covered her mouth as her cheeks pinked in a far too adorable way.
“Come on, let’s go eat. What about the groceries? Did you order them?”
“Yes. Including steaks and whiskey. Two things I rarely indulge in, by the way.”
Lifting her into his arms, he carried her through the house to the patio and situated her on the lounger. “Don’t worry. I’m happy to drink the whiskey, and you’ll love the steaks I’m going to prepare for you.”
“I can’t wait.” She sounded sincere.
He sat back in his own lounger and dove into his lasagna. “So what do you usually do on the weekends?”
“It’s Monday.”
Elliot shrugged. “Just trying to make conversation.”
“Oh. Right. Of course.” Clearing her throat, she pointed at the course with her fork. “Golf. And putter in my flowerbeds.”
“Wasn’t expecting that.”
“What? That I don’t mind getting dirty?”
Now it was his turn to clear his throat and shift his gaze to watch a guy with kelly-green pants attempt to sink his ball into the nearest hole.
Why did everything come across so damn sexual when he was around her?
“What about you?” she asked as she devoured her eggplant parm.
He liked that she wasn’t afraid or embarrassed to eat heartily in front of him. He was looking forward to cooking for her. She’d appreciate the effort.
“Are you asking what I do on the weekends?”
She nodded and reached for her wineglass, which was empty. He hopped to his feet, hurried into the house, and returned with the bottle and another glass.
“Thanks,” she said as he refilled her drink and poured his own.
He took a sip. “You have good taste in wine.”
She shrugged. “My parents used to entertain a lot, back when my father was just a one-man show, trying to convince potential clients to give his business a chance.”
“My parents like to entertain too, but strictly for the sake of having a good time.”