“Nah, far from it.”
My gaze roams over his face. “Judging from your scars, I’d beg to differ.”
Something comes over him, fast, and he stands, his chair nearly toppling backward as he glances around the kitchen.
Heavy silence fills the air, takes up space, seeps under my skin. Uncomfortable in its wake, I follow his gaze, note his deadly stillness, along with the tightening of my throat as I wait for him to speak. I’ve clearly hit a soft spot. His scars are something he doesn’t want to talk about.
“I better clean up,” he finally says as he scrubs his chin. The rustling of the hairs reaches my ears, and I fight the urge to run my fingers along the hard angle of his jaw, tug him to me and hug him.
Happy for the change in subject, I jump up and say, “I’ll help you load the dishwasher, and then I’ll get going.”
“You don’t have to do that. You cooked and I didn’t really help.”
“There was nothing for you to help with.” I look at the few dirty plates, salad bowl, glasses, and silverware. “Actually there’s not much, and there’s no need to put the dishwasher on with so few dishes.” At home I’m always conservative when it comes to things like this. “How about we just wash and dry the quickly. Working together we’ll be done in half the time? Then the next time I cook, I’ll do it when there’s no game on and you can get more involved.”
“Okay, I’ll wash, you dry,” he suggests.
“How about the other way around, since I don’t know where anything goes?”
“Sounds good.”
Cole clears the plates as I fill the sink with soapy water. From the window, I can see the pool all lit up and the hot tub tucked into the corner. It looks so nice and relaxing. What I’d do to top off a long night with a hot soak. But I don’t have a suit, and even if I did, I’m not stripping down in front of Cole.
“Just drop them in here,” I say, and splash my hands in the bubbles, flustered at the directions of my thoughts. Cole steps in beside me, and his body brushes against mine as he sets the dishes into the water. The clean, fresh sent of him takes over my senses, and my pulse flutters in my throat. Electricity snaps between us, hot, volatile, impossible to ignore. I try not to show a reaction, a difficult task, considering his closeness, the way his body is pressed against mine and lighting me up like I’m one of the July 4th fireworks.
“Do you like living in this big place all by yourself?” I ask, a tactic to get my mind on something else other than his hard body and how every touch makes my sex flutter. I soap the dishes, and water splashes over my shirt. Dammit.
“Yeah, I do. I spend a lot of time on the road with the guys, sharing rooms, meals, and sometimes beds. Here, well, I can just kind of relax, you know?”
I turn to face him, and his gaze rakes over me, lingering on my T-shirt.
I glance down and, thanks to the water I splashed on to myself, see that my bra is visible. Damn, how many times am I going to embarrass myself in front of this guy? I turn from him, hide my chest and say, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were an introvert.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You like to unwind, relax and rejuvenate alone. Nothing wrong with that. I’m an introvert,” I say. “I prefer libraries and quiet spaces over parties.”
He frowns at me. “Is that why you didn’t come to mine?”
He noticed that I hadn’t come?
Jeez, I never thought I’d be missed by him, or any other guy. Like I said, men rarely pay me attention.
But Cole was paying attention.
As my gaze trails to Cole, I go on to explain, “Partly. It’s not that introverts don’t like parties, they just need quiet time to refill the well. I think almost all writers are introverts. Maybe that’s why I gravitated toward it after the accident.”
Cole tosses the dishcloth over his shoulder and gestures with his head. Something mischievous sparkles in his eyes. “Come on, I want to show you something.”
My body instantly goes on high alert. Yes, I’ve been checking him out like, a lot, but if he thinks I’m going to follow him to his bedroom so he can show me something, no matter how much I want to see that something, it’s not going to happen.
I put my soapy hand on my hip, wetting my T-shirt even more. “What exactly is it you want to show me?”
“Come on, it’s a surprise.”
I lift my chin. “Forget it. I don’t like surprises.”
“You’ll like this. It’s a big one.”