She turned and smiled a secret smile, her back to him once again. "Might as well finish the bottle."
He cleared his throat, and she knew she'd won when she heard the gentle glug of the wine being poured. She pushed the stacked dishes aside for the moment and whirled around to retrieve her glass. He handed it to her, filled to the brim, while his remained noticeably empty. Her fingers trembled as she took it, keenly aware of his overpowering presence. Desperate for some semblance of calm, she took a careful sip, studying him over the rim of her glass. "You didn't keep any for yourself."
He watched her, his eyes unreadable as he set the empty bottle on the table. "Gave it up. Tilltonight. But just for Mima." He turned abruptly to check on the pot. "It's steaming. Where do you want it?"
She set her wine down and hurried to the sink, snatching a dishtowel from a hook. She slung it over her shoulder. "Here ... half in the wash pot, half in the rinse." She stepped back, allowing him just enough room to pour. Vapor rose like a cloud of mist, delivering the faint scent of Bay Rum to her nostrils. His powerful back strained as he poured, his jacket pulling tightly across broad shoulders. He turned, pot in hand, dwarfing her with his height. "More?"
She swallowed hard. Her chin tilted up to meet his eyes. "More?"
A faint smile flickered at the edge of his lips. "Water. You said you like it hot."
Blood surged to her cheeks. "I ... no, that's fine. Just fine." She staggered back, lightheaded. Her hands were shaking when she reached for her wine. She gulped it too quickly. Settle down, Charity. He's just a man.
She took a deep breath and turned, patting the back of the nearest chair. "Why don't you just sit and keep me company while I do the dishes?"
He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms, assessing her through hooded eyes. "Why? Too close for comfort?"
She blinked, and her lips parted in surprise. Ignoring the heat in her cheeks, she jutted her chin. "No. Is it for you?"
He grinned. A reckless gleam shone in his eyes. "You wash, I'll dry."
Charity took a deep breath and moved toward the sink, confusion and euphoria battling in her brain. She tried to focus on the task at hand, but her thoughts were tripping faster than the beat of her heart. What was he doing? It was as if a few glasses of wine had unleashed the rogue in him. He was baiting her, teasing her ... disarming her.
This is his idea of friends?
She drew in a deep breath and sliced her hands into the warm water, scouring plates like a madwoman before plunging them into the rinse. Fishing them out once again, she didn't bother shaking them off, just slapped one on top of another in a sloppy clatter, water sluicing onto the counter. After several silent moments, she tilted her head to chance a peek out of the corner of her eye. "You're not drying."
He gauged her through half -lidded eyes. "And you're not washing; you're drowning."
Her chuckle cleaved to her throat when he lowered his gaze to her mouth. The breath in her lungs shallowed, drifting out in short, raspy breaths. "You're still not drying," she whispered.
He moistened his lips, then slowly lifted his eyes to hers. "I need this." His fingers skimmed across the towel on her shoulder, causing the air to still in her throat.
Dear God, what was happening? It was as if he had no control over his hand as it strayed from the towel to the soft curve of her neck. A tilt of her head, the blush of her cheeks, and suddenly he was two different men. One whose every muscle, thought, and desire strained toward wanting her. The other, a distant voice of conscience and memory, quickly fading with every throb of his renegade pulse. Curse the effect of the wine! What else could explain this driving insanity pulsing through him right now? His fingers burned as they lingered, slowly tracing to the hollow of her throat. Against his will, Mitch fixated on her lips, lush and full, staggered at the heat they
He cleared his throat, and she knew she'd won when she heard the gentle glug of the wine being poured. She pushed the stacked dishes aside for the moment and whirled around to retrieve her glass. He handed it to her, filled to the brim, while his remained noticeably empty. Her fingers trembled as she took it, keenly aware of his overpowering presence. Desperate for some semblance of calm, she took a careful sip, studying him over the rim of her glass. "You didn't keep any for yourself."
He watched her, his eyes unreadable as he set the empty bottle on the table. "Gave it up. Tilltonight. But just for Mima." He turned abruptly to check on the pot. "It's steaming. Where do you want it?"
She set her wine down and hurried to the sink, snatching a dishtowel from a hook. She slung it over her shoulder. "Here ... half in the wash pot, half in the rinse." She stepped back, allowing him just enough room to pour. Vapor rose like a cloud of mist, delivering the faint scent of Bay Rum to her nostrils. His powerful back strained as he poured, his jacket pulling tightly across broad shoulders. He turned, pot in hand, dwarfing her with his height. "More?"
She swallowed hard. Her chin tilted up to meet his eyes. "More?"
A faint smile flickered at the edge of his lips. "Water. You said you like it hot."
Blood surged to her cheeks. "I ... no, that's fine. Just fine." She staggered back, lightheaded. Her hands were shaking when she reached for her wine. She gulped it too quickly. Settle down, Charity. He's just a man.
She took a deep breath and turned, patting the back of the nearest chair. "Why don't you just sit and keep me company while I do the dishes?"
He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms, assessing her through hooded eyes. "Why? Too close for comfort?"
She blinked, and her lips parted in surprise. Ignoring the heat in her cheeks, she jutted her chin. "No. Is it for you?"
He grinned. A reckless gleam shone in his eyes. "You wash, I'll dry."
Charity took a deep breath and moved toward the sink, confusion and euphoria battling in her brain. She tried to focus on the task at hand, but her thoughts were tripping faster than the beat of her heart. What was he doing? It was as if a few glasses of wine had unleashed the rogue in him. He was baiting her, teasing her ... disarming her.
This is his idea of friends?
She drew in a deep breath and sliced her hands into the warm water, scouring plates like a madwoman before plunging them into the rinse. Fishing them out once again, she didn't bother shaking them off, just slapped one on top of another in a sloppy clatter, water sluicing onto the counter. After several silent moments, she tilted her head to chance a peek out of the corner of her eye. "You're not drying."
He gauged her through half -lidded eyes. "And you're not washing; you're drowning."
Her chuckle cleaved to her throat when he lowered his gaze to her mouth. The breath in her lungs shallowed, drifting out in short, raspy breaths. "You're still not drying," she whispered.
He moistened his lips, then slowly lifted his eyes to hers. "I need this." His fingers skimmed across the towel on her shoulder, causing the air to still in her throat.
Dear God, what was happening? It was as if he had no control over his hand as it strayed from the towel to the soft curve of her neck. A tilt of her head, the blush of her cheeks, and suddenly he was two different men. One whose every muscle, thought, and desire strained toward wanting her. The other, a distant voice of conscience and memory, quickly fading with every throb of his renegade pulse. Curse the effect of the wine! What else could explain this driving insanity pulsing through him right now? His fingers burned as they lingered, slowly tracing to the hollow of her throat. Against his will, Mitch fixated on her lips, lush and full, staggered at the heat they
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