was going to have to get over this breathlessness whenever she was around him. Breathing was definitely a job requirement.
A lazy smile crinkled the corners of his eyes, and his gaze zeroed in on her mouth. A slug of dark, moist desire latched on to that look, and pulled it straight down to her pelvic floor.
It was all she could do not to lick her lips. Stop it. Stop it right now, Breeanne Bliss Carlyle.
It didn’t matter how handsome he was or how much he fired her engines with those knowing eyes. Ignoring for the moment that she was writing his autobiography, and that she’d set strict ground rules regarding their working relationship, a girl like her could never hold on to a guy like him. Not for any length of time. He could have any woman he wanted. Yes, he might seem interested, but it was his default expression. She couldn’t bank on it.
Not by a long shot.
She read the tabloids. Heard the gossip around town. She knew well enough what he was like. If he was interested in her at all, it was only as a novelty. Someone completely removed from the polished, sleek women he usually dated.
He was born to charm. He couldn’t help himself. It was in his DNA. His modus operandi. He could make any woman feel like she was the only person in the room. Until he got what he wanted, and then he would be on to the next conquest.
Determinedly, she leashed her libido, and unleashed an energetic can-do smile. “Ready to get down to work?”
“Are you always this chirpy in the morning?”
“Always,” she assured him.
“You’re a lark.”
“What?”
“You’re a meadowlark, like Warwick.” He yawned. “I’m a night owl.”
“Nine o’clock isn’t all that early. I’ve been up since five.” She wasn’t about to tell him she’d been so excited that she couldn’t sleep. Let him feel guilty for being a lazybones.
Yet part of her couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to stay up late into the night with him. She once read a study that said men who were night owls had more sexual stamina than men who were early risers. It was probably bunk, but she couldn’t help wanting to test the theory.
With Rowdy.
Dammit. She had to stop thinking like this.
Nolan Ryan loped into the foyer. When the bloodhound saw her, his tail started wagging, and even though his hangdog expression didn’t change, he trotted over the threshold, settled onto her feet, and gazed up at her with pet-me eyes.
“You have yourself quite an admirer,” Rowdy said.
“It’s mutual.” She bent to scratch the dog behind the ears, and she could have sworn she heard Rowdy mumble, “I’m jealous.”
But when she glanced up, he was walking away. Her gaze snapped onto his gravity-defying butt. High, tight, round, hard. Lord, but the man could fill out a pair of jeans.
“I need coffee,” he said over his shoulder. “You want some?”
“I don’t drink coffee,” she called after him.
“You coming?”
Coming. The word had several connotations, including a particularly naughty one. Good grief. She was acting like a silly sixteen-year-old.
“There’s a dog on my shoes,” she explained.
Rowdy chuckled, whistled. Nolan Ryan got up and moseyed along after him.
Clutching her computer to her chest, Breeanne followed. In the kitchen, Rowdy waved her onto a bar stool. “Have a seat.”
She eased down at the bar, taking in the state-of-the-art kitchen with sleek modern cabinetry and stainless steel appliances, so different from the homey Victorian kitchen of her parents’ house.
For the first time Breeanne wondered how she might decorate a kitchen of her own. Maybe she’d start a Pinterest page and find out.
Rowdy went over to the K-cup carousel, selected a coffee cartridge, and plugged it into the individual-serving coffeemaker. She couldn’t help noticing how his biceps stretched the seams of his T-shirt, and this time, mesmerized by the map of muscles, she did lick her lips.
“We have tea. Do you want hot tea?” he
A lazy smile crinkled the corners of his eyes, and his gaze zeroed in on her mouth. A slug of dark, moist desire latched on to that look, and pulled it straight down to her pelvic floor.
It was all she could do not to lick her lips. Stop it. Stop it right now, Breeanne Bliss Carlyle.
It didn’t matter how handsome he was or how much he fired her engines with those knowing eyes. Ignoring for the moment that she was writing his autobiography, and that she’d set strict ground rules regarding their working relationship, a girl like her could never hold on to a guy like him. Not for any length of time. He could have any woman he wanted. Yes, he might seem interested, but it was his default expression. She couldn’t bank on it.
Not by a long shot.
She read the tabloids. Heard the gossip around town. She knew well enough what he was like. If he was interested in her at all, it was only as a novelty. Someone completely removed from the polished, sleek women he usually dated.
He was born to charm. He couldn’t help himself. It was in his DNA. His modus operandi. He could make any woman feel like she was the only person in the room. Until he got what he wanted, and then he would be on to the next conquest.
Determinedly, she leashed her libido, and unleashed an energetic can-do smile. “Ready to get down to work?”
“Are you always this chirpy in the morning?”
“Always,” she assured him.
“You’re a lark.”
“What?”
“You’re a meadowlark, like Warwick.” He yawned. “I’m a night owl.”
“Nine o’clock isn’t all that early. I’ve been up since five.” She wasn’t about to tell him she’d been so excited that she couldn’t sleep. Let him feel guilty for being a lazybones.
Yet part of her couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to stay up late into the night with him. She once read a study that said men who were night owls had more sexual stamina than men who were early risers. It was probably bunk, but she couldn’t help wanting to test the theory.
With Rowdy.
Dammit. She had to stop thinking like this.
Nolan Ryan loped into the foyer. When the bloodhound saw her, his tail started wagging, and even though his hangdog expression didn’t change, he trotted over the threshold, settled onto her feet, and gazed up at her with pet-me eyes.
“You have yourself quite an admirer,” Rowdy said.
“It’s mutual.” She bent to scratch the dog behind the ears, and she could have sworn she heard Rowdy mumble, “I’m jealous.”
But when she glanced up, he was walking away. Her gaze snapped onto his gravity-defying butt. High, tight, round, hard. Lord, but the man could fill out a pair of jeans.
“I need coffee,” he said over his shoulder. “You want some?”
“I don’t drink coffee,” she called after him.
“You coming?”
Coming. The word had several connotations, including a particularly naughty one. Good grief. She was acting like a silly sixteen-year-old.
“There’s a dog on my shoes,” she explained.
Rowdy chuckled, whistled. Nolan Ryan got up and moseyed along after him.
Clutching her computer to her chest, Breeanne followed. In the kitchen, Rowdy waved her onto a bar stool. “Have a seat.”
She eased down at the bar, taking in the state-of-the-art kitchen with sleek modern cabinetry and stainless steel appliances, so different from the homey Victorian kitchen of her parents’ house.
For the first time Breeanne wondered how she might decorate a kitchen of her own. Maybe she’d start a Pinterest page and find out.
Rowdy went over to the K-cup carousel, selected a coffee cartridge, and plugged it into the individual-serving coffeemaker. She couldn’t help noticing how his biceps stretched the seams of his T-shirt, and this time, mesmerized by the map of muscles, she did lick her lips.
“We have tea. Do you want hot tea?” he
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