She depressed the button that sent the opener whirring to life, unsure if the shock waves were coming from the reverberation of the equipment in her hands or from Shane’s fingers. She met his eyes over the bottle, pulse pounding in her neck, palms dampening under his.
How had she managed to turn this into an erotic experience?
Look at him. He is an erotic experience.
A subtle pop sounded, and Crickitt dragged her eyes from his face as he released her hands.
“You’re a natural,” he said, pressing another button to release the cork and catching it in one hand.
A lump of lust formed in her throat. She put a palm to her cheek. Her face felt hot. Actually, her everything felt hot. Shane disposed of the cork, his every move as fluid and smooth as the wine he poured into their waiting glasses.
“You okay?” he asked.
She dropped her hand. “Yep,” she answered a little too loud. “I’m great.”
He handed her a glass and raised his for a toast. “To kicking ass.”
She released a laugh and, hopefully with it, some of the tension knotting her intestines.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said after they took a drink.
Lord, she hoped not.
“You’re wondering if I have any personality at all.”
Way off. Way, way off.
She swept her hair from her neck, hoping a dose of cool air might domesticate her Girls-Gone-Wild hormones. “No, I don’t think that,” she said, gesturing across the room in an attempt to change the subject. “Anyone with a clock like that has to have a personality.”
He didn’t laugh with her as he moved from the breakfast bar to stand next to her. He frowned at the clock, his emotions receding like he’d backed into a dark corner. “It was my father’s.”
Crickitt’s heart squeezed. Was. The clock was a family heirloom, and from the sound of it, not a good one. She’d singled out the one personal item in the room and learned that it held a secret he wouldn’t share. One that he shouldn’t share with a colleague. Taking a giant mental step away from the line she’d crossed, Crickitt said, “I like it.” Before tacking on a lame, “It’s nice.”
“We should get started,” he said. Brushing by her, he headed down the hallway.
Chapter 12
Two hours later, Crickitt stifled a yawn and nearly poked herself in the eye with her pencil.
“I’ve kept you too late,” Shane said from his desk. Crickitt was stretched out on the leather couch on the other side of the room, sketches and pages of handwritten notes scattered at her feet.
“No, I’m fine.” The image on the page blurred in front of her. “Well, maybe I am a little tired.”
“Yeah, so am I.”
For once Shane looked tired; no less attractive, but tired. His hair was disheveled from pushing his hands through it one too many times, and his five o’clock shadow had struck twelve. Which made her worry what she must look like. She doubted haggard looked as good on her.
He’d abandoned his starched button-down shirt in favor of the white V-necked tee underneath. He rolled a shoulder, and the rumpled cotton sculpted to his pectorals. She couldn’t keep from staring. Until now, she hadn’t had to contend with the distracting view. He’d been perched behind his computer screen for most of the evening.
He stretched his arms overhead, revealing his tanned abdomen. Seeing that flash of skin made her want to yank his shirt over his head and explore the rest of his amazingly contoured torso with eager hands.
She dragged her eyes, kicking and screaming, from the flat planes of his stomach, reciting a lecture about how she needed to stop objectifying the stacked, ripped, delicious man across the room. She refocused on the sketchbook in her lap, a far less satisfying view.
“I’m relieving you of your duties,” Shane said, approaching the sofa. “Before I get accused of being a slave driver.”
Aware she was sprawled on his couch like she owned it, Crickitt moved a pile of sketches to a nearby chair and put her feet on the floor. Shane sat at the other end with a huff, the warmth from his body drifting across the cushion, his nearness causing her heart to pound.
He dropped his head onto the back of the sofa and closed his eyes. “Are we going to be able to come up with anything he’ll like?”
She didn’t reply right away. She was too busy watching the low groan work its way from his throat to his lips.
Snap out of it.
She wasn’t being paid to check him out after hours. They had a job to do and had very little time to do it. Shoving away teenage tendencies, she finally managed to speak. “Of course we will.”