by Lori Foster
He was just drying his hands and putting the leftover cat food in the refrigerator when the doorbell rang. His gut clenched, sending a flush of unexpected but not unwelcome warmth outward to his extremities.
When was the last time he’d had this kind of reaction to a woman? Not in a good long while, that’s for sure.
He had had his fair share of dates and probably close to that number of one-night stands. He’d meet a woman at the bar and go home with her. Or one would walk into his garage, do a bit of flirting, and he’d invite her to dinner. They’d spend a few hours talking and laughing, then end up in bed for a few even more enjoyable hours. But nothing seemed to stick. None of them piqued his interest past a handful of dates or rolls in the sack.
But Erica was different. She did pique his interest. He wanted to know what made her tick past her simple love of animals. Past her willingness to let a near stranger into her house at midnight because he needed help with animals. And her penchant for romantic comedies, whimsical sleepwear and thick suspense novels. (He’d noticed the scattered piles of books on shelves in her living room.)
He suspected that, if he ever got lucky enough to peel her out of her clothes, a mere handful of rolls in the sack wouldn’t be enough, either. Carnal scenarios had been playing through his mind all morning, and he wasn’t even close to running out of them.
Rubbing his hands down the front of his slacks, he shot a glance at the kittens—still romping merrily on his couch, taking turns wrestling one another to their backs—before he walked to the door and invited Erica in.
She’d showered, too, and her brown hair now fell in loose curls to her shoulders. She was wearing a sunflower yellow top, faded jeans and incredibly white tennis shoes.
“Hi,” she greeted him, sounding slightly out of breath, as though she’d run the short distance from her place to his. The thought was inordinately pleasing.
“How’s it going?” she asked before he’d turned from closing the door.
He didn’t need to guess at what she was talking about.
“Fine. Great, actually.” He waved a hand toward the sofa, where she could see that his charges were still alive and well. Better than well, they were on the verge of wreaking havoc.
That little black-and-white one—Moe, he was definitely going to be Moe—was a troublemaker. The other two were still in the middle of the sofa where he’d left them, while Moe had climbed onto the back and was walking its length like a tightrope.
Erica chuckled at his antics, while making a beeline for them. She scooped up Moe and placed him on her lap as she sat. The other two wasted no time joining their brother—or sister...damned if Dean knew—for some of the attention Erica was lavishing on him.
She petted and snuggled and cooed, and Dean couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face. This was nice. And entertaining as all get-out. It beat a boring old baseball game any day of the weekend.
“I fed them again,” he told her, oddly eager to assure her he’d been taking good care of them in the whole two hours they’d been apart. “You were right about them lapping from the spoon. I think if we found a bowl with a low enough edge on it, they’d be able to feed themselves. Though I’m pretty sure they’d still make a mess of it.”
“Excellent,” she said, flashing a wide smile in his direction. “See, they’re growing up right before your eyes, and it’s only been less than one day.”
Leaning to the side without budging the kittens so much as a millimeter, she lifted a small paper gift bag from the floor near her feet. She’d been carrying it when she’d first arrived, but he hadn’t thought much of it.
“I brought some things for the kitties to play with, so you don’t feel like you need to entertain them 24/7.”
He blew out a breath. “That would be a relief. They’ve been following me around like my shadow. I had to take them in the bathroom with me just to get a shower.”
“Awww,” she said, making a sound in the back of her throat that was more amused and less sympathetic. “They think you’re their mommy.”
He twisted his lips but didn’t respond, not quite sure how to feel about that. Wouldn’t any sort of bonding—from them or from him—just make it harder when he turned them over to the local shelter or found homes for them?
But Erica wasn’t paying attention to his strange internal conflict; she was digging into the bag and coming up with fuzzy mice, jingly balls, lengths of thick string and a big square cardboard scratcher.
The scratcher was brand-new, and she handed it to him to open. “I’m not promising this will save your furniture, but it will help.”
“Where did you get all this stuff?” he asked.
No way did she have enough time to shower, take care of her dogs and cats the way she’d planned, run out for cat toys and show up at his door in under two hours looking so damn hot. Not when he’d barely had time to change clothes and clean up a bit.
“The toys are mostly ones my cats haven’t played with for a while, and the scratcher is just an extra I had on hand.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re so well prepared,” he told her, handing back the unwrapped long rectangle of cardboard which she set on the floor, then placed the kittens on. They immediately began sniffing at the new object, followed by doing exactly what they were meant to do—scratching. It was kind of adorable.
But since Erica was the only one he wanted softened up by kitten cuteness, he cleared his throat and half turned away.
“I thought I’d repay your kindness last night by fixing lunch today. Maybe tucking in to watch another movie, since we have to stay home and kitty-sit.”
“You don’t have to do that,” she said, sounding way too polite for how he had hoped the evening might end.
“I want to,” he told her honestly.
The corners of her mouth lifted in a sweet smile. “Okay. I’ll have to run over to my place in a few hours to take Murphy and Lola out, but thank you.”
It was still early, so no sense putting water on to boil just yet. “Why don’t we watch a movie first? Then we can take a doggie-walking break before we eat,” he suggested. “Check out my DVDs for something you’d like to see.”
She followed the direction of his gaze to the glass-fronted cabinet that was part of the entertainment center.
“Wow,” she said, leaving the kittens to play while she moved to study his collection.
He moved up behind her, probably closer than was entirely proper given their short acquaintance. But he liked the light brush of her back to his front and the scent of apples that wafted from the top of her head, which came to just about the level of his chin.
“I know. I spend a lot of time alone when I’m not working, and I watch a lot of movies. No chick flicks, though. I hope you aren’t too disappointed.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Some of these could be considered girl movies.”
Was it his imagination, or had she leaned into him slightly when she had tipped her head to look up at him? He almost reached for her arms to hold her steady and make sure.
“The Terminator is definitely a chick movie,” she continued, oblivious to the fact that the blood in his veins was heating to a slow boil.
Thankfully, there was still enough blood in his brain to follow the thread of the conversation. His brows knit as he frowned.
“The hell you say. The Terminator is pure testosterone from start to finish.”
She was already shaking her head. “Nope, sorry. It’s a romance. Not with the happiest of endings, I’ll admit, but it’s still a romance. And the love scene is hot.”
She was hot. And adorable, which was an incredibly potent mix. He wouldn’t mind reenacting The Terminator love scene with her right now. The movie would have nothing on them by the time they finished...provided they didn’t spontaneously combust.
; His temperature spiked another couple of degrees. Total possibility.
Nostrils flaring, he put just a little more space between them, so she wouldn’t accidentally feel his attraction to her nudging her hip.
Clearing his throat, he asked, “So is that what you want to watch?” Hot love scene and all...groan...which would probably kill him.
“I’m not sure. You have some pretty good horror flicks here, too.”
“You like horror movies?” He knew he sounded surprised, but well...he was. Most of his past girlfriends had hated them. Had even hated that he liked them and would either refuse to watch with him or spend a lot of time covering their eyes or burying their faces in their knees.
“I love them,” she said with a smile and wide excited eyes. “Some of them scare the snot out of me, but I still can’t get enough.”
Once again, this could work in his favor. It was almost as though fate was giving him a road map to winning her over.
“Have you seen Bloodbath yet?”
She shook her head. “It looks really good, though. Bloody, but good.”
Reaching around her, he pulled out a brand-new DVD, still in the cellophane.
“You haven’t watched it yet?”
“I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.” Like a weekend when the weather was bad, he was bored stupid or no one worth rooting for was in the play-offs.
She skirted a glance to the kittens, who’d abandoned the cardboard scratcher to explore other areas of the carpet. One was attempting to climb back up on the couch, but he had only gotten about three inches off the floor and was simply hanging there, fighting gravity.
Just as it started to cry the kitten version of Help!, Erica swooped in and scooped him up. She flopped down on the couch, the kitten resting square on her lap.
“Any chance this qualifies as a special occasion?”
She actually batted her lashes, lips pursing in a teasing yet infinitely kissable moue.
Oh, if she only knew.
“Definitely,” he replied, already tearing into the plastic wrap on the disc’s case before passing it to her. “You get the movie started, and I’ll get us something to drink.”
He was halfway to the kitchen when she called out, “Are you sure you trust me to play with your equipment?”
He nearly stumbled over his own feet, biting back a groan. Either she was completely unaware that she was tossing out knee-buckling double entendres or she was trying to drive him over the edge.
Not that he would mind going over—and taking her along for the free fall—but he didn’t think they were there yet. Maybe after the movie. And lunch. And a few more suggestive innuendos that would most likely go over her head...and straight to his dick.
Although his vocal chords felt as though they were strangling each other, he forced himself to toss back, “I’m sure you can handle it.”
Sure enough, he saw from the corner of his eye that she had no reaction to his comment at all, except to move closer to the DVD player and start pressing buttons.
He barely suppressed a sigh. How was he supposed to flirt with her, let her know he was interested in being more than just pet-sitting pals, if all of the hints he’d normally drop weren’t going to have an impact?
For being such a sweet, simple little thing, she was turning out to be damn complicated.
Chapter Three
As the movie—which had been every bit as gory and terrifying as the trailers had promised—came to an end, Erica sat stock-still, not entirely certain of how to act. The kittens were curled up, sound asleep in their laps. One on hers, one on Dean’s, and one sprawled belly—and paws-up along the line where their legs were touching.
They made the perfect excuse for not moving away from Dean. But the truth was, she was embarrassed. It had been all too easy, too natural to gravitate toward him as the movie got darker and scarier. Then the kittens had started snuggling in, and she’d shifted a little more to make them comfortable. He’d done the same—conveniently in her direction. And finally, either intentionally or unintentionally—though she sort of suspected it was intentional—he’d done that whole yawn, stretch, arm-around-her-shoulders thing that men were so fond of doing in darkened theaters.
She’d been kind of amused at first...then convinced he really had just needed to stretch his muscles...then almost too nervous to concentrate on the film because she’d begun to wonder if he was actually hitting on her.
Her mind raced through every moment of their acquaintance, everything that had happened, everything that had been said. She knew what she thought of him—that he was hot with a capital H. Of course she was interested in him—no red-blooded woman with eyes in her head wouldn’t be.
Aside from appreciating his physical attributes, though, she knew he was a hard worker. Leaving early, coming home late, owning his own garage and even working around the house or on his own truck on the weekends.
And now, with his rescue of these three adorable kittens, she knew he had a good heart. Frankly, his actions this weekend made him gold-star-hero material in her eyes.
So, yeah—she was more than interested. Which was why she’d been trying so hard not to let it show.
She’d been so careful not to let him catch her staring. Mentally drooling or doing a little ohmigod-ohmigod-Dean Maxwell-is-in-my-house dance.
And until now, she’d been super careful not to touch him. Just having his fingers brush against hers while handing off a kitten had sent zings of electricity shooting through her system.
Leaning into him, side to side, her back to his chest, was like being pressed against a 450-degree oven, her skin nearly bubbling everywhere they touched. And her stomach was in knots. The good kind that made her heart pound with excitement and her knees clench together with arousal.
She wondered what he would do if she let her head fall on his shoulder. Or twisted around and kissed him smack on the mouth.
If she thought he’d welcome her advances, would wrap his arms around her and kiss her back, she would totally do it. But since she wasn’t 100 percent sure... Her heart dropped. She was just too afraid of being rejected and making a fool of herself.
When the DVD came to its very final dead end, and Dean began to shift with a low groan, she did the same, straightening away from him while doing her best not to disturb the still-sleeping kitties.
“Did you like it?” he asked, pulling his arm back and stroking the tiny gray kitten on his lap.
“Definitely. I’m kind of glad I watched it with you, though,” she admitted. “I think it would have scared me half to death if I’d been by myself.”
He chuckled. “And in the middle of the day, right? Now you won’t have to sit up half the night with a butcher knife, jumping at every noise you hear.”
“That’s true,” she said with a small laugh of her own. “I feel a little safer with Murphy and Lola around, but after they finish barking at an intruder, I’m afraid all they’ll do is lick him to death.”
He turned to face her a bit better, and she was surprised to find his expression more serious than she’d expected.
“You can always call me, you know,” he murmured. “If you get scared or hear a noise in the middle of the night.”
His lips barely moved, and his gaze, she noticed, had slipped to her mouth.
Her pulse tripped over itself, her chest tightening in anticipation.
“That’s—” a dozen descriptions flashed through her brain, but she finally settled on “—very sweet. Thank you.”
One corner of his mouth quirked upward and a sexy glint lit his eyes as his gaze met hers. “I’m a very sweet guy. Just ask Larry, Moe and Curly,” he said with a nod toward the kittens, which were still snoozing on their laps.
He’d named the kittens after The Three Stooges. Why was she
not surprised? It was such a guy thing to do.
Then again, naming them was the second step toward complete and utter adoration. Step One was looking directly at the cuteness; most people couldn’t abandon a helpless animal once they’d done that, and she was pretty sure Dean had done plenty of it.
Step Two was considering names. Once one stuck and the bonding began, anyone with half a heart was a goner. She suspected Dean might have a heart and a half, though if he was like most men, he probably didn’t want word getting out.
Erica looked down at the kittens, at his long, broad fingers stroking the gray one’s soft fur, then back to his face.
“I think if I asked, they would say you’re not only sweet, but their hero.”
Reaching out, he brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, then lingered to let his thumb play back and forth along her cheek.
“Would you still think I was a hero if I kissed you?”
A lump formed in her throat, making it difficult to speak. But at least now she knew—he was interested in her. The attraction was mutual. Unless he made a habit of asking every woman he spent the afternoon with, watching horror movies and babysitting kittens, if he could kiss her.
Lord, she hoped not.
Swallowing hard, she prayed words would actually form when she opened her mouth. With a nod, she said, “I think so, yes.”
His face split with a wide grin a second before he leaned in and locked his lips to hers. His mouth was warm, firm, heavenly. He tasted vaguely of the sweet, syrupy soda they’d been drinking during the film, and she enjoyed sipping it from his lips even more than she had from her own.
For several long minutes, they stayed just like that—lips closed, nipping, licking, exploring. And then his fingers grazed the nape of her neck, sliding up to tangle in her hair. He tipped her head, increasing the pressure of his mouth until she opened her lips, more than willingly. With a groan, he delved inside, weaving his tongue around hers.