Bobby sauntered down a short flight of stairs to a sunken living room with Pergo floors. His chest tightened as the cozy little room drew him in, surrounding him with rich navy blues. Jennifer loved blue. Navy mostly, but all shades. Her dorm room had been a navy blue she’d insisted was “velvet blue.”
His lips twitched as he remembered kissing her and telling her that her lips were velvet soft, and then making love to her on the “velvet blue” comforter.
Bobby sat down on the overstuffed couch, placing the donuts and coffee on the table before him, and then ran his hand over the cushion. “Is this navy blue or velvet blue?”
Her eyes went wide and a pink flush touched her pale perfect skin, telling him she remembered that day on her velvet bedspread as much as he did. “Come sit with me,” he urged, rescuing her from a reply.
She crossed her arms in front of her, staring at the couch, his hand and the coffee. “Why are you back, Bobby?”
Why was he back? That was a loaded question. He could say for Marcie’s wedding—which was partially true—but overall, a copout, and they’d both know it. He’d never lied to Jennifer, and he wasn’t going to start now. Besides, there wasn’t an easy answer anyway. Aside from—he had to come. He had to see her. Still, too much too soon, he decided.
Instead, he simply replied, “What’s wrong with old friends sharing coffee and donuts?” And then added in a soft plea, “It’s getting cold.”
“Old friends,” she said softly. “Is that what we are?”
Their eyes locked and held, tension, both sexual and emotional, stretching between them. “Aren’t we?” he challenged. Friends and so much more.
Indecision flashed across her face. “I should go put on some clothes,” she said, clearly avoiding his question.
“I won’t complain if you stay in your robe,” he teased gently.
The pink in her cheeks flushed redder, as if he hadn’t seen her naked a million times over. “Bobby,” she chided.
“Sorry,” he said, meaning it. He didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. But he did want her. “I couldn’t resist. I promise not to look.” She gave him a disbelieving gape. He lifted a defeated hand. “Okay, I won’t look—much. Or I’ll try not to. Really.” Not really. He scrubbed his jaw in further defeat. “How about I promise not to stay long?”
She tilted her head, studied him. “I don’t know if I should grab something and throw it at you or just drink the coffee and eat the donuts.”
“While I’m sure throwing something at me might hold a certain degree of pleasure,” he commented, “I recommend caffeine consumption before making that judgment.”
“Valid point,” she conceded, and walked to the other end of the couch. “For the record, I reserve the right to throw something, or many things, at you, one or more times, during the next two weeks.”
He smiled. “I can live with that though your father will probably do it for you after the wedding.”
“True,” she agreed happily.
Her father was protective. Bobby had hurt her. He’d have some things to say to Bobby and Bobby guessed she wasn’t feeling too inclined to stop him. Jennifer picked up the coffee and sipped. Her lashes fluttered, dark circles on creamy white skin as she added, “Okay. For the moment, the coffee is way better than throwing something at you.”
“That’s good to hear.”
She blinked several times. “Thank you. I so needed this.”
“That’s what you used to say every morning.”
She breezed past the comment. “I’ve never been very human without my coffee, I guess,” she admitted and grabbed a donut.
“I guess some things never change,” he teased, barely containing the urge to reach for her. He wanted to kiss her. To taste her. To lay her down on that couch and feel her close.
She bit her bottom lip. “Bobby—”
“You have chocolate on your mouth,” he said. Taking advantage of her hands being full—one with coffee, one with a donut—he reached over and ran his finger to swipe off the offending icing, when he longed to use his tongue. He licked his finger. “Good.” Her. Not the chocolate.
“Stop,” she objected, setting the donut on the box and the coffee on the table. “I know what you’re trying to do.”
He arched a brow. “Which would be what?”
She glowered. “Bobby—”
He leaned a little closer. “I like hearing you say my name. Even when you’re mad.”
“I’m not mad,” she said and pushed to her feet. “And I’m not having sex with you. I’m not some two-week, wedding fling.”
He stopped. “Wait,” he said. “We’re talking about sex, and I don’t know about it? But okay on the two weeks.” He lowered his voice to a velvety-blue shade. She looked adorable, all flustered and ready to take his head off. “Two weeks would never be enough.”
Her eyes went wide and she opened her mouth to speak when her cell phone rang, from what sounded like the pocket of her robe. “You know it’s Marcie,” he said. “You should talk to her. Put her out of her misery. She thinks you’re mad, too.”