He gave her a thoughtful look. “You’re right,” he said, surprising her. “In all fairness, though, you distracted me by opening the door in that sexy-as-hell green muck of yours. I had to kiss you.” She opened her mouth to object, and he quickly added, “I’m teasing. You’re right. I should have warned you. I had no idea it would be as big a deal to you as it obviously is.” He softened his tone, casting her a puppy-dog brown stare. “I’m sorry.”
Oh, man, those eyes. He was good. Too good. “I’m not letting you off that easily.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” he said, his eyes alight with amusement. “What do I have to do to make that up to you?”
Give me another orgasm, came her instant silent response, which was so out of character, it shook her into seeking a distraction. “I’ll think about it while I eat,” she replied. And curling her bare feet into the couch cushions, she took a bite of a yummy chocolate muffin. Deliciousness exploded in her mouth. “Oh, wow. This is so good.”
“From the bakery on the corner,” Ryan informed her, reaching into the bag for one of his own. “The clerk swore people come from all over town to get them so I figured we’d give ’em a go.”
He took a bite of one of his own and quickly nodded his agreement with her assessment. “Not bad. Not bad at all.” His gaze caught on the newspaper lying on the table, the cover story hers, though no one would know.
After penning the story, Sabrina hadn’t been able to let the credit go to someone else, and she suspected Frank had known that would be the case. They’d settled on yet another pen name to keep her anonymous from the staff, which had allowed her to write from the heart. The governor had blamed post-traumatic stress disorder for the soldier’s criminal activity, and after some research, Sabrina had found it wasn’t uncommon for soldiers in wartime to suffer such problems and not be properly diagnosed and treated.
Ryan frowned and finished off his muffin. “That soldier didn’t have post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“How can you be so sure?” she asked, perking up with interest.
“I know,” Ryan said.
Excitement started to form. “Are you saying you served with this man, Ryan? You knew him?”
“No,” he said, quickly leaning forward to point out the newspaper.
There was a photo of the soldier, right before a sharpshooter killed him.
“See his wrist, right above the cuff? The symbol tattooed on his arm.” Sabrina nodded and he showed her his own wrist. “That soldier was Special Ops. Unbreakable. He wasn’t a trauma case. Ask yourself what was the bigger picture here.”
There was an innuendo to those words that said he understood the soldier a bit more than he wished he did, and it made her curious. Why had he gotten out when he seemed so dedicated to being a soldier?
He slapped his legs. “Listen, your coffee has to be cold and my cup is empty.” He headed to the kitchen, both their cups in hand. Surprised, Sabrina followed his path with her hungry stare. He was so, well, manly. A soldier, honorable. A gentleman, filling her cup, not because it was expected, but because it was second nature. She could see that in his casual demeanor, his comfort in his own skin. Ryan seemed to just be Ryan. What you see is what you get, though the missions he’d run, the things he’d seen, said that might not be true. He confused her, he interested her. Too much. For the first time in a long time, she realized she might be able to fall for a guy. And get hurt. It was a frightening feeling. She had to rein this back in, get a grip, get some control. Starting now.
“How do you take your coffee?” he asked, rounding the end of the counter.
“Oh,” she said, hopping to her feet in delayed reaction and rushing to the kitchen. “I was thinking I should have come to make it myself.” In her haste, she’d put herself in her rather compact kitchen, with only inches separating her and Ryan.
They simply stood there, staring at each other, sexual tension snaking between them, sensuous in demand. Ryan took a step forward, and she stepped back. “Wait. Ryan. About last night.” Okay. That wasn’t exactly what she’d planned. “It was…”
He arched a brow. “It was…?”
Exciting. Scary. Perfect. Wrong. “A mistake.”
One she would remember for the rest of her life.
8
“WHAT HAPPENED LAST NIGHT…” Ryan began, backing Sabrina against the counter and framing her legs with his own, the soft clean scent of her firing up his senses, “was hot. You were hot. We were hot. Everything about it was hot.”
Her hands went to his shoulders, rejection in her soft features. “We almost had sex in the stairwell and that, by the way, is probably illegal.”