The Nights Before Christmas. Vicki Thompson Lewis
box, and he was pleased that she had. The toolbox meant a great deal to him, but to most people, it was only a big wooden carrying case. “Can I help with anything?”
She shrugged. “Not much to do but stir.”
The kitchen was small and narrow, with the stove and refrigerator on one side, the sink and cabinets on the other. He wanted to wash his hands before he ate, but if he stood at the sink, he’d be crowding her, invading her space. Still, going back into the bathroom to wash his hands seemed sort of ridiculous.
“I’d like to wash up, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure.” She didn’t look up from her vigorous stirring of the soup.
The space between was barely big enough for two people. He was careful not to brush against her as he moved in front of the sink. In such proximity he could smell that rose fragrance of hers, and when he leaned over to wash his hands, his hip brushed against her. He imagined he heard a quick intake of breath and wondered if she’d felt the same jolt of awareness he had.
“Sorry,” he said. He tilted his pelvis toward the sink.
“Not a problem.”
He was a skilled listener, and he heard the tremble in her voice. “They didn’t build these kitchens with two people in mind.” In reality he thought this was the best kind of kitchen for cooking with your lover. He thought large spaces were highly overrated.
Pulling a paper towel from a rack, he noticed that the screws on the rack were loose. “Your towel rack needs to be tightened up,” he said. Yeah, sure. He was looking for an excuse to keep occupying that space.
“Later, maybe. The soup’s ready. If you’ll take the crackers and cheese into the living room, I’ll bring the soup.”
He reached over and picked up the cracker basket and the cheese board before going to stand near the kitchen doorway. “We’re eating in the living room? On that white sofa?” He had a vision of tomato soup all over it.
“It’s stain-proofed.” She turned, reached into the cabinet and took out two large stoneware mugs. When she did that, she grimaced, as if raising her arms hurt her.
“Are you okay?”
She turned in surprise. “I’m fine. Why?”
“You looked as if you were in pain just then.”
“Oh. I’ve been going to the gym with Terri, and my muscles aren’t pleased about it.”
Now he had a new picture to contend with—Suzanne in tight workout clothes. “I don’t think you’re supposed to get sore working out. Do you stretch?” He wondered why anybody with a body like hers felt the need to go to the gym. No body-sculpting machine would be able to improve on those measurements.
“I stretch.” She took the pan from the stove and started pouring the soup into the mugs. “I get in the hot tub. I take herbal baths when I get home.”
He’d bet she did. And now he had a mental image of her doing that. Oh, baby.
She gave him a quick smile. “I’m just not in very good shape. It’ll get better, or at least Terri says it will.”
“A massage might help.” This conversation wasn’t a good idea. Now he imagined Suzanne stretched out on a massage table naked, while someone, preferably him, oiled her up. He’d sent away for a tantric-massage video months ago because he’d always been curious about the discipline. He’d discovered that the video showed him exactly how to massage a woman to orgasm. He’d never tried it.
“Massage might be a good idea.” Her color was high, almost as if she’d been able to peek into his fevered brain. “I’m sure the gym has some people on staff who could handle that.”
“I’m sure.” He didn’t want her to be massaged by some people on staff. He wanted to take care of it, and he wanted to do it now.
She picked up the mugs and glanced at him. “Ready?”
SOUP. SHE’D INVITED HIM to have a bowl of from-a-can soup. How domestic and totally idiotic. When she’d come up with the plan, it had seemed like a great idea for a cold winter night and something she could prepare in a hurry. But Greg was a big guy, and the skimpy meal she’d offered him wouldn’t be more than an appetizer for him. An appetizer for what?
“Should I move the poinsettia?” he asked.
“Um, sure. And the magazines, if you don’t mind. That stuff can go on the end table.”
She waited while he cleared the table and set down the cheese and crackers. He used care with her things, she noticed. Jared would have scooped up everything and dumped it in a pile, knocking leaves off the poinsettia in the process.
Concentrating on the task, she managed to place the mugs on the glass coffee table without spilling a single drop. That was a real feat, because she was still quivering inside from the way he’d looked at her back in the kitchen. She couldn’t remember ever having a man look at her like that, with such total appreciation. With carnal appreciation, to be precise.
She’d always assumed that kind of heated look would make her feel devalued, like a convenient sex object. But that single look, as if he’d enjoy licking every square inch of her, had done more for her self-esteem in two seconds than she could imagine getting in two years at the blasted gym. No, Greg was not like the gym.
But that didn’t mean she planned to go to bed with him. Scorching looks were a long way from scorching touches. But you couldn’t blame her for wanting to keep Greg around a little bit longer. Maybe she didn’t need the full treatment. A few more of those melting looks and she’d be good to go, ready to hit the dating scene, her ego repaired.
It felt great to be sexually desired. Fabulous. She surveyed the coffee table to see what they were missing. “We need napkins. I’ll be right back.”
She hurried to the kitchen and started to grab a couple of paper napkins from the holder on the counter. Then she changed her mind, opened a drawer and took out the bright red cloth napkins she’d bought because they matched the pillow on her sofa. She’d never found the right time to use them.
When she returned, she found him leafing through one of the magazines he’d moved to the end table. “Looks like you’re interested in decorating.”
She sat down, keeping a full cushion’s distance between them, and handed him a napkin. “I like to fool around.”
His glance was warm and knowing as he laid the napkin over his knee. “I can see that.”
Her words echoed in her head and she blushed. “With decorating, I mean.”
“I knew what you meant.” He picked up the mug of soup in those capable hands of his. “And it shows.”
She feared that what was showing was her sexual interest in him. She had to be careful that he didn’t get the wrong idea and act on some silent signal she was giving off. She grabbed the slicer and carved off a piece of cheese. “It’s hard to do much decoration in such a small apartment.” She put the cheese on a cracker so that she’d look as if she actually cared about eating.
Cradling the mug, he gazed at her. “Does that mean you want a big house someday?”
A big house, with a big bed, and a man who looked like Greg lying naked in it. “I suppose I do.” She’d always expected to have a home, and a husband, and a couple of kids. It was the American way.
In between imagining Greg lying naked on a king-size bed, she found herself wondering about his future plans. Maybe he’d asked the question because he was saving money to get a place of his own. “Do you want a big house eventually?” she asked. Then she took a bite of the cracker and cheese she didn’t want but had to pretend to enjoy.
“A house, maybe. Not a really big one, though. I like intimate, cozy spaces.”
She