She blinked, pulling herself together. “You don’t have smoke alarms installed?” What kind of an idiot didn’t have smoke alarms? They should be going like crazy now.
“That’s what you were waiting for?” He asked in disbelief. “Were you going to let them burn longer to test out my sprinkler system too?” He looked at her like she was loco.
And in that second the alarm started—shrieking—right above her head. She was stupidly relieved. She watched as Jack waved a tea-towel madly above them, clearing the air to stop the ear-bleeding noise.
Her hammering heart began to settle. Two weeks ago she’d been under suspicion for something terrible—but she hadn’t started it. Of course she hadn’t. Her landlord had been wholly dodgy, and there’d been no working alarm.
“Good to know it works,” she said blandly to Jack who’d ceased the semaphore act and was watching her with his expression one giant question mark.
She turned away and frowned at the bench with the half-made muesli. She was hardly about to share the details of the fire with him. “I don’t have more hazelnuts with me. It won’t taste the same.”
He snorted. “It won’t matter. Tom can always toast his own.”
Thus spoke a man who did not understand gourmet muesli. “I think he has other things to do with his time,” she said pointedly.
And she had to suck up the mistake. She’d promised Tom and she’d deliver as best she could. She found a fresh tray and prepped the other nuts and oats—measuring enough of the maple syrup to give it the flavor that was so sensational.
She carefully folded the mixture over and over again before putting it in the oven. Then she leaned against the countertop and glared at the oven. So not going to glance over at Jack. Not going to. Not even once.
“So—”
“Don’t talk to me,” she interrupted him. “I’m not ruining the rest of it.”
He didn’t talk, but he did look—she knew from her peripheral vision. Libby had to make a superhuman effort not to give in to the urge and look directly back at him. And despite her many mental pleas, he didn’t leave the kitchen. Did he still think she was there to lift his most precious possessions? Or did he now think she might set fire to the place? Oh the irony.
“Why couldn’t you make this at your place and just drop it off to him?” He ignored her “silence” edict.
“I don’t have an oven in my home.” It was a tiny bedsit—only two gas rings, a bar fridge, and a toaster in the cupboard that was the kitchen.
“You don’t have an oven?”
Did he have to sound like he didn’t believe anything that came out her mouth?
“It’s a very small home.” Unlike this posh place.
“So where were you producing the muesli for stores?”
It was the inquisition again. “I rented a commercial kitchen.” The fire had gutted the facility three weeks ago. Three weeks of absolute hell, but she had no desire to offload all the agony on to him.
She turned and started to clean up—still keeping a watchful eye on the tray in the oven.
“And this is what you do for a living?”
She really wished she could say yes. Instead she shook her head. “I have a day job.”
He nodded as if he’d figured that one already. “Must be hard to make a profit when your core ingredients are so expensive. Your target market must be small.”
She rebelled at the implied “it’ll never work” comment—she’d heard it enough from others. Those who thought healthy food shouldn’t cost so much. Especially not breakfast food.
“And your heart is in cereal?”
“Exactly.” It was all about her heart. This was her way of helping health, and it was her baby—a safe outlet for her passion.
Because she wasn’t getting passion elsewhere. Definitely not from any tall, dark, musclier-than-anything man. But unfortunately her body had decided that it wouldn’t mind a little sensual thrill, and his proximity was a major problem.
Finally—thank heavens—the stuff was ready. She pulled the tray from the oven then fanned it to cool the muesli as quickly as possible. She wanted to get out of there ASAP. But she couldn’t resist glancing up. Her gaze collided again with his. The way her heart skipped when she looked at him? She all but drowned in his eyes as he focused on her. Not good. Libby had no intention of getting involved with any guy, certainly not one as magnetic as he. She was looking after her heart. Physically and emotionally—and emotionally meant no entanglements.
“Once this is cool just put it in here.” She waved the container at him. So ready to leave now.
“So now Tom has his muesli,” Jack gave her a small—sarcastic—clap.
“I hope he enjoys it.” She threw him one last defiant glare and grabbed her bag. But she couldn’t help worrying about her product. “I hope he doesn’t mind about the hazelnuts.”
“He’ll live.” Jack stood and followed her down the hall to the door. “I’m sorry you have to leave before he gets back,” he said facetiously.
“That’s fine.” Libby felt the urge to needle him one last time so she put on her foxiest smile. “He has my number if he needs any more.”
“I think you’ve left him with plenty.” His arm brushed against hers as he reached forward to open the door.
To her immense discomfort he accompanied her down the stairs. Probably ensuring she truly did vacate the premises. But she could feel him so close, just a half step behind her. Electricity arced—jolting her—and she walked faster to the bottom. She glanced back and saw he’d matched her pace. He was right there, tall, dark—and yes, too gorgeous for any girl’s good. She reached for the door. He was standing close beside her and watching her even more closely.
“He’ll be sorry he wasn’t here to say thank you himself,” he said softly. “So I’ll have to do it for him.”
Exactly how was he going to thank her? Because from that look in his eye she was thinking that he was going to… to…
No, surely not. But his smile was so devilish and he was so damn handsome, she ended up so flustered she yanked on the door and tried to go through it all at the same time.
All that happened was she smacked her head so hard on the thick wood the sound of the whack vibrated for the next twenty seconds.
“Oww.” She closed her eyes tight against the intense pain. A wave of giddiness threatened to drown her consciousness. Hell that hurt.
“Libby?”
She clamped a hand to her head and wanted to evaporate. As if it wasn’t bad enough to be caught snooping around someone’s private home, she’d burned half the things she was meant to make and now she’d just about knocked herself out. And it was his home—Mr. Hollywood handsome personified. Mortified wasn’t the word.
“Let me look at it.”
Humiliated, anger flared. “You keep distracting me,” she growled.
Despite the ringing in her ears she heard the chuckle beneath his breath. “Let me see.”
His hand came firmly over hers and he peeled her fingers away from her forehead. She looked into his face for his reaction—another big frown.
“Is it bleeding?” she asked.
“I think you should come back upstairs.”
She shook her head but instantly stopped the movement as her vision swam. “No.”
“Libby—”
“No, it’s fine.” She needed to get out of here, away from him and this whole embarrassing episode.
“It’s not that bad, but it’s definitely not fine,” he said calmly. “Come on. Upstairs.”
No, she was leaving now.
He bent his knees, ducking his chin to capture her complete attention with his. His blue eyes bored into hers. She couldn’t tear away. His eyes really were a deep blue, almost navy. She watched him draw nearer, his blue irises thinning to a wide ring around their black, hot center. Mesmerized, she froze, completely forgetting the ringing pain in her head. Instead she was stunned by the return of that wild, impossible thought, as she watched him draw nearer and nearer. His lips curved into the most wicked smile and she just waited because she was certain
the guy was about to kiss her. And she’d definitely had a knock on her head because now she wanted him to, so very much. And she’d be kissing him right back, right about—
“I can’t let you walk out of here looking like you’ve just been beaten up. My reputation would suffer.” He spoke low and slow and with such a smile, she melted.
She bet he had a one hell of a reputation. Thoroughly deserved too if that look was anything to go by. But by the time she’d even processed that thought she realized she was halfway up the stairs again already—his arm firm around her waist as he guided her, almost lifting her up each stair.
The throbbing in her head was nothing compared to the impact of the contact. The man was a wall of muscle—so strong and scarily comforting. She tried to straighten and not lean so hard against him. But his arm tightened and she gave in, letting him take half her weight.
Maybe she was concussed because time slipped and she was back at the top of the stairs and outside his apartment already. She felt giddy, her legs wobblier than a kitten’s. He didn’t say anything as he looked down at her—his hold still firm. She met that brilliant blue with an embarrassingly mesmerized stare. Her heart beat so fast it was a wonder it didn’t fly from her chest like a startled bird. She only had to angle in a little more and she’d be flush against his body. His delightfully big, hot body. But suddenly that warmth was gone. He’d stepped back—keeping a light hand on her arm now as he opened his door.
“We need to get you fixed up,” he said.
The bathroom was just as magnificent as his kitchen. Feeling like a two-year old and wishing she could have the tantrum to go with it, Libby sat on the countertop while he rummaged in a First Aid box for whatever he needed to perform this apparently massive operation.
He looked up from the box and laughed at the expression on her face. “Don’t worry, it won’t hurt.”
The smell of the antiseptic actually soothed her. It wasn’t that horrid hospital grade stuff that burned your nostrils, but the far more comforting scent that brought back memories of being a kid with a scraped knee and her mother scooping her up to give her reassurance. She closed her eyes, hiding the silly tears that sprang up at the wisp of memory. And also hiding from that too handsome face intently concentrating on the job. But with her eyes closed she was more aware of his touch.