bizarre place you’ve had sex?”
Leo chuckled. “Since the last time I answered that question?”
“Oh, I give up.” Macy started pushing her cart toward the front of the market. Leo, of course, still followed. He continued to follow, and even stopped when she stopped at the olive bar to load up at $6.99 a pound.
“You’re actually going to pay that price?”
“Why not? I’m worth it.” She went for the Greek style and the jalapeño stuffed. “Besides, I’m drowning my tears in salt. Lauren had olive issues. She refused toallow them into the house. But I can eat anything I want to now that she’s gone.”
“Gone? Where’d she go?”
“She moved in with Anton over the weekend.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.” Macy popped an olive into her mouth.
“So.” Leo ladled $6.99 a pound olives into a small plastic tub of his own. “You’re living in that great big loft alone. And I’m living by myself in a glorified hotel.”
“Yes, I am. And don’t think I don’t know what you’re thinking because I do. The answer is no.” She popped another olive because, even though she’d made a weak effort to head him off at the pass, a sense of where he was about to take this conversation had her heart racing, her toes tingling, her dread of having the loft to herself ready to invite him to stay.
“Why not? It’s the perfect solution.”
“Solution to what? I don’t see any problem here needing solving.” She circled her shopping cart around the olive bar, turning to the barrels of fresh-roasted Sumatra Mandheling coffee beans.
“Rent money? I could make up Lauren’s half. Go a few dollars extra.”
Money she didn’t need. Money she was fine with. It was the prospect of silence and solitude making her crazy. Crazy enough to realize that Leo Redding—why, of all people, Leo Redding?—had just provided a short-term answer to the question of what she was going to do about her living arrangements.
She shoveled a pound of the coffee beans into a paper bag. “Money’s not a problem. But you know that. You know how much gIRL-gEAR is worth.”
Leo gave an acknowledging shrug and pointed hertoward the barrel of Hawaiian Kona. “That’s still a lot of space for one person to manage.”
“I’ll manage,” she answered, frowning when she realized she was actually scooping up the beans he wanted. Expensive tastes, this one had. But then she knew that about the man, didn’t she?
“I’ll bring my espresso machine.”
“There’s a Starbucks on the corner.” She tossed the Kona into his basket, wheeled her cart around and made for the bakery before she actually handed him her extra house key.
This was absolutely insane. Leo Redding? Living in the loft? There was no way she could share her space with this man. He was the chalkboard beneath her fingernails, the hot leather car seat beneath her short shorts. So why was the prospect of having him under her roof, even temporarily, such an incredible turn-on? The idea should’ve turned her off completely.
Her nerves fired a round of thrilling jolts. She reached for a three-pack of apple-bran muffins, a loaf of oatmeal-cinnamon bread. She wondered if Leo liked oatmeal-cinnamon bread. She looked up to catch him watching her. “I suppose you have a bread machine, too.”
“Too much trouble.”
“And pulling your own espresso isn’t?”
“Priorities,” he said, and shrugged with one shoulder, his white shirt drawing tight over his muscles as he moved.
“Mine are in order, thank you.” She pondered the garlic-topped onion rolls. Bad breath. The perfect repellant to ward off sexy, broad-shouldered men. She added a bag to her cart.
Leo reached for a bag of his own. “Your scavenger hunt isn’t a priority?”
Screw the scavenger hunt. Who needed a cruise, anyway? If she needed anything it was a reversal of the lobotomy she’d undergone between the olive bar and the onion rolls, because she was actually close to saying yes.
She had to
Leo chuckled. “Since the last time I answered that question?”
“Oh, I give up.” Macy started pushing her cart toward the front of the market. Leo, of course, still followed. He continued to follow, and even stopped when she stopped at the olive bar to load up at $6.99 a pound.
“You’re actually going to pay that price?”
“Why not? I’m worth it.” She went for the Greek style and the jalapeño stuffed. “Besides, I’m drowning my tears in salt. Lauren had olive issues. She refused toallow them into the house. But I can eat anything I want to now that she’s gone.”
“Gone? Where’d she go?”
“She moved in with Anton over the weekend.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.” Macy popped an olive into her mouth.
“So.” Leo ladled $6.99 a pound olives into a small plastic tub of his own. “You’re living in that great big loft alone. And I’m living by myself in a glorified hotel.”
“Yes, I am. And don’t think I don’t know what you’re thinking because I do. The answer is no.” She popped another olive because, even though she’d made a weak effort to head him off at the pass, a sense of where he was about to take this conversation had her heart racing, her toes tingling, her dread of having the loft to herself ready to invite him to stay.
“Why not? It’s the perfect solution.”
“Solution to what? I don’t see any problem here needing solving.” She circled her shopping cart around the olive bar, turning to the barrels of fresh-roasted Sumatra Mandheling coffee beans.
“Rent money? I could make up Lauren’s half. Go a few dollars extra.”
Money she didn’t need. Money she was fine with. It was the prospect of silence and solitude making her crazy. Crazy enough to realize that Leo Redding—why, of all people, Leo Redding?—had just provided a short-term answer to the question of what she was going to do about her living arrangements.
She shoveled a pound of the coffee beans into a paper bag. “Money’s not a problem. But you know that. You know how much gIRL-gEAR is worth.”
Leo gave an acknowledging shrug and pointed hertoward the barrel of Hawaiian Kona. “That’s still a lot of space for one person to manage.”
“I’ll manage,” she answered, frowning when she realized she was actually scooping up the beans he wanted. Expensive tastes, this one had. But then she knew that about the man, didn’t she?
“I’ll bring my espresso machine.”
“There’s a Starbucks on the corner.” She tossed the Kona into his basket, wheeled her cart around and made for the bakery before she actually handed him her extra house key.
This was absolutely insane. Leo Redding? Living in the loft? There was no way she could share her space with this man. He was the chalkboard beneath her fingernails, the hot leather car seat beneath her short shorts. So why was the prospect of having him under her roof, even temporarily, such an incredible turn-on? The idea should’ve turned her off completely.
Her nerves fired a round of thrilling jolts. She reached for a three-pack of apple-bran muffins, a loaf of oatmeal-cinnamon bread. She wondered if Leo liked oatmeal-cinnamon bread. She looked up to catch him watching her. “I suppose you have a bread machine, too.”
“Too much trouble.”
“And pulling your own espresso isn’t?”
“Priorities,” he said, and shrugged with one shoulder, his white shirt drawing tight over his muscles as he moved.
“Mine are in order, thank you.” She pondered the garlic-topped onion rolls. Bad breath. The perfect repellant to ward off sexy, broad-shouldered men. She added a bag to her cart.
Leo reached for a bag of his own. “Your scavenger hunt isn’t a priority?”
Screw the scavenger hunt. Who needed a cruise, anyway? If she needed anything it was a reversal of the lobotomy she’d undergone between the olive bar and the onion rolls, because she was actually close to saying yes.
She had to
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