She found him reading a newspaper in the den. He didn’t hear her at first, and she had the chance to study him for a moment. Her heart sank as her eyes hungrily devoured the sight of him, so relaxed and sexy. She could feel her shaky willpower growing weaker by the moment.
Derek looked up and smiled at her, his eyes heart-wrenchingly tender behind his glasses. “Hi. Feel better?”
“Yes,” she whispered, moistening her lips. She tried to strengthen her fading voice. “I’m sorry I went to sleep for so long.”
“You needed the rest. Are you hungry?”
“Yes, I am, but—”
“Good. I’ve got dinner ready to go under the broiler. Nothing fancy, just ham, cheese and tomato open-faced sandwiches. Sound okay?”
“Definitely okay,” she agreed with a touch of shyness. Her eyes seemed to have become fixed on the open collar of his close-fitting knit shirt, fascinated by the silky dark curls nestling there. She knew how hard his body felt through his clothes. Would he feel as hard without them? she wondered dreamily. She should make every effort not to find out. But already her fingers were twitching to test him.
Dinner was consumed in near silence, though Summer could have sworn she could hear her own heartbeat booming through the room. A new note of intimacy had been introduced into their relationship that day, and now she was aware, as she had not been before, of bein
g truly alone with him. She sensed every movement he made, found herself incredibly attuned to his breathing and deep voice. Though the sandwiches were good, she found she could barely taste her food. Instead, she found herself avidly watching him eating his, finding the experience amazingly erotic. She’d never really thought eating was sexy, despite the books she’d read, but now she was beginning to understand. Each time Derek’s mouth closed around his sandwich, she shivered, imagining those lips on her skin.
Dammit, stop this! she told herself desperately. Say something! Anything!
“This is the second time you’ve made dinner for me, Derek,” she said at last, as if he couldn’t remember that vitally important fact for himself. “I’ll have to return the favor sometime.”
Really dumb, Reed, she scolded herself. Why didn’t you just ask the guy for a date?
“I’m not much of a chef,” Derek admitted. “I’ve served you my entire repertoire of dishes now. Steaks and sandwiches.”
“Both of which have been excellent.”
“Thank you. Do you like to cook, Summer?”
“Sometimes. Nothing fancy, though. Connie says that I cook with an Arkansas accent.”
“Meaning?”
“Just that I cook like a rural Southern housewife—the way my mother cooks, to be precise. Plain meats, potatoes and gravy, vegetables boiled with pork seasoning. California nutritionists would be appalled at the amount of calories and carbohydrates and cholesterol, or whatever, but the food tastes good, and that kind of cooking has raised generations of healthy Reeds and Welches.”
“Welch was your mother’s maiden name?”
“Yes. Amazing what little tidbits you’re finding out about me, isn’t it?”
“There are still a lot of things I want to know,” he replied.
Summer shook her head. “No more of my life history. I’m bored with the subject. I’d rather talk about you tonight.”
“Now that’s a boring subject.” Derek gathered his supper dishes and carried them into the kitchen, leaving Summer to assume that the conversation had been brought to an abrupt end. She sighed in exasperation and reached for her own plate.
“How’s your leg?” Derek asked when they were seated on the oatmeal-colored sofa in the den, two cups of coffee on the low table in front of them.
“Fine. Tell me about your work, Derek.”
He refused to take the hint. “It’s throbbing, isn’t it?”
“Your work? Interesting, perhaps, but hardly—”
“Summer.” He put the palm of his hand firmly over her mouth. “Your leg. Does it hurt?”
“A little,” she mumbled behind his hand, glaring at him.
Derek nodded shortly and dropped his hand. “I think I prefer the other way of shutting you up,” he told her, his eyes glinting silver with his smile. “With a kiss.”