“I’m going to get started on revamping the website,” Richie said. He stood as well, reaching out to give Angel’s shoulder a squeeze before he walked to the door.
Once their co-workers exited, Shane tilted his head at his cousin. “What was that?”
Angel’s eyes widened innocently. “What?”
“Richie.”
Rather than answer, one side of her mouth lifted into an impish smile. “How was the cabin last night?”
“None of your beeswax,” Shane said, but found himself returning her teasing smile. He stood from his chair before she probed further. “If you’ll excuse me.”
“Of course,” Angel said with an all-too-knowing shrug.
Shane found Crickitt sitting on a bench outside the building, head tilted back. Golden sunlight kissed her features as a soft breeze kicked her curls around her head, making her look like a displaced fairy.
“Didn’t I tell you not to worry?” she crowed, her eyes shut.
He chuckled. She could tell him so all she wanted. He was relieved enough to dance a jig. And he wasn’t a particularly good dancer. He sat next to her, his leg brushing against her bare one. She straightened from her lounge position, tugging down her filmy floral skirt in the process. Reluctantly, he dragged his gaze from her knees to her gorgeous face.
Shane watched her until she looked over at him.
“Thanks,” he said.
Her eyebrows pinched. “For?”
“For all your help, for letting me drag you down here. For…being you.”
She blinked twice in quick succession, her blue eyes filling with emotion. Hope, if he wasn’t mistaken. So damn much of it, fear coiled in his gut. He looked down at her lips, considering a host of things he shouldn’t.
Kiss her. Tell her you want her. You know you want to.
He did. Badly. The realization made him dizzy, like he was teetering dangerously close to a ledge he never should have ventured onto to begin with. Before he slipped off, he shifted his attention from her face to the tree-lined street in front of them and tried to gather his wits.
The Townsend issue was resolved. It’d be a good time to back off, let things between him and Crickitt return to normal.
“We should go out to dinner, celebrate,” he said, evidently content to ignore his own advice.
“Oh. No, thanks.”
At least one of them was thinking clearly.
But before he felt the sting of rejection, she added, “Restaurants are nice, but I need a home-cooked meal.”
“I know just the place.” It was a small battle, but he couldn’t escape the idea that he’d won. “Great kitchen,” he said, “but no cook.”
“You cook,” she teased, elbowing him.
“I bake,” he corrected. “Unless you want cake or cookies”—he swallowed, remembering the afternoon by the waterfall, intense chocolate chip kisses, her lips pink and swollen from his whiskers. His next words sounded like they were coated in gravel—“then I’m afraid I’m not much help.”
* * *
Shane underestimated his culinary abilities, in Crickitt’s opinion. He helped pull together a perfectly respectable spaghetti dinner, knew what the term “al dente” meant, and she’d even found a fresh block of Parmigiano-Reggiano in the fridge.
She leaned back in her chair at the kitchen table and placed a hand on her stomach. “Not bad if I do say so myself.”
“You’re a regular Chef Boyardee,” he said over the rim of his wineglass. Then he frowned and pulled it away without taking a drink. “Dishes.”
“You’re rich,” she said, waving a hand. “Don’t you have people who do that for you?”
“I don’t have a house staff at home, let alone here.”
“Is that really true?”
“Surprised?”
“Your house is so clean.” The image of Shane on his hands and knees scrubbing a bathroom floor, a slightly damp T-shirt clinging to his hard back muscles, thrust itself into her imagination.
“One of my first clients when I started my company was Maid in Waiting,” he said, pulling her out of the fantasy. “They come out twice a month to do the big stuff.”
An image of her wearing a French maid costume popped into her brain.
“But”—he held up a finger to defend himself, probably thinking her smirk had to do with judgment rather than her ill-behaved hormones—“I do all my own laundry.”
She tipped her head toward the mess on the stovetop. “And dishes?”