He laughed. “Are you kidding? More than okay. ” He tempered himself—he needed to stop sounding so enthusiastic. This was another man’s woman. And it was Sorrow, no less. She was guileless, not at all a flirt. If she was there because she said she’d bought too many groceries, then that was why she was there.
She still wore her jacket, and he went up behind her. “Hey, take off your coat and stay a while. ”
He slid it from her shoulders and had to choke back a curse. Her shirt was sheer and black, and it gave him a glimpse of her black bra underneath. It was the sexiest goddamned thing he’d ever seen.
He coughed, feeling mighty glad he was standing behind her so she couldn’t see his face, or any other parts of him for that matter. “You’re looking fine this evening. ”
As she turned to face him, her hand fluttered at her hem, like she was fighting the urge to adjust her shirt. “Am I too dressed up?”
His eyes went to that part of her shirt that wasn’t smooth, right where the lacy cups of her bra covered her breasts. His jeans grew tight, like he was a damned teenager again. Thank God he’d at least changed out of his sweats, or his condition would be ridiculously obvious. “Hell no. ” He laughed at how vehemently that’d come out. “I mean, not too dressed up at all. You’re gorgeous. ”
But then an icy rock formed in the pit of his stomach, giving him pause. Was she staying, or did that fancy shirt mean this was a cook and run sort of thing? “Are you…have you got a date with Damien later?”
For an instant, she looked panicked. “No,” she said quickly, then added in a more somber tone, “I mean, no. We broke up. ”
“Oh. ” His pulse thrummed hard in his neck, his throat suddenly dry. “I’m sorry. You doing okay?”
“Yes, I am, actually. ” She stood at the counter, arranging groceries that didn’t need arranging. “I’m the one who broke it off. ”
The full impact of the situation hit him. Sorrow was single.
“So…” He hesitated on the question he knew he needed to ask. “Does that mean you didn’t love him?”
She got a funny, faraway look. “I don’t think I did. ” Those blue-green eyes cleared, coming into focus to meet his. “I mean, I know I didn’t. I guess I wanted it to be love. I’ve never been in love. ” She opened her mouth like she wanted to say more, and he held his breath.
He’d love to see this woman in love. Heat flared in his chest, long-stoked embers raging into flame. Billy would love to see this woman in love with him.
“I see,” he said.
She’d put on that killer shirt. Filled a bag with food. And come to him. It wasn’t love maybe, not yet. But maybe it could be.
There was something between them. He realized there had been, from the first cup of coffee she’d ever poured for him at the tavern. He’d felt the instant connection of two like minds, followed by a spark of attraction. But he’d been too muddled, or too guilty, or simply too long numbed to know what it was he’d been feeling.
He knew it now, though. He’d been nearly dead inside for years, but now he felt awake and alive. And like a bear emerging from hibernation, he was hungry and ready. His wanting was fierce, a thing that clenched his chest and tightened his groin.
His gaze went back to that shirt—the neck was a low V, with a row of delicate buttons down the front. A man would need to undo each one slowly, carefully.
Or simply tear the thing off her.
She looked around. “So…we should get started. ”
Oh yes, they should. He stepped closer, forcing himself to breathe slowly. They’d be lucky if they made it to the first course.
“Do you have an apron I could wear?” She glanced down at her shirt. She wore a small locket nestled between her breasts.
Someday he’d be the man to sweep the hair from her neck to clasp her necklace as she got ready. He’d stand behind her and rest his hands on her bare shoulders. He’d turn her to face him. He wouldn’t give her a chance to finish getting dressed.
Billy licked his lips. He could taste her already. He could imagine what it would be like between them, and he was a goner.
“This is Laura’s shirt, and I don’t want to mess it up. ”
“Of course,” he said, though his mind was still in his fantasy. And in his fantasy, he’d be careful with that shirt. No ripping this one. He’d take each tiny, shiny button one at a time.
She looked at him expectantly. “So…apron?”
“Apron,” he repeated. He had an old one wadded in the pantry, but he’d be damned if he let her cover up that shirt. “I’m afraid there’s no apron. ”
“I hope you’re not too, too starving,” she said as she readied the lamb. “I’d like to marinate this for an hour or so before I cook it. ”