His Southern Sweetheart

Amelia hated the unfamiliar green streak rumbling through her veins. She’d captured it before in the editing room after going through footage. She knew that when a bulging vein crept out of the middle of someone’s forehead or jaws clenched together, the green-eyed monster was getting ready to enter. Film-wise, capturing the moment was gold. Personally, Amelia wanted to crawl under the table and die. Then, like verbal diarrhea, the snide comments couldn’t stop. “I bet she has.”

“Brittany understands the deal.”

The deal? What was the deal and why did it make Amelia want to scratch Brittany’s eyes out? Amelia did not do those things. Sure, she’d aired a lot of catfights, but she herself did not partake in violence. “What is your deal?” She hated herself for asking.

“I don’t do complicated,” he said, reaching behind him to set the now-empty glass on the table.

“Oh.” She relaxed her lower back. “I understand.”

“Do you?”

“You don’t like attachments. I don’t, either.”

Nate’s luscious lips pressed together. Did her use of the term bother him? “When was the last time you dated someone?”

One of the perks a field producer had was asking questions. Back in the day, she’d cut her teeth on a reality show, meaning she’d worked in a house filled with a half dozen highly volatile young ladies, where she and a crew had filmed everyone for six days straight in order to obtain enough drama to produce a thirty-minute episode. One might think having a minor in psychology was a waste of time in this business, but Amelia used hers a

s a skill to evoke emotions. She took what she saw on film to question problematic situations, whether there or not. Every confessional she edited raised the most drama on reunion shows. In the scheme of things, Amelia understood what buttons to push. This was her job. Not Nate’s. “Let’s talk about something else.”

Amused, Nate shook his head from side to side. “Nah, what’s wrong with answering the question?”

“Because I know where this will go,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll answer your question and then I’ll ask you the same.”

His mouth spread into an even more amused grin. His golden brown arms folded over the back of the chair. “Okay. I have nothing to hide from you.”

“Because I already know when your last relationship was.” Amelia pressed her finger to her chin, pretending to ponder the question. “Um, or shall I say relations?”

A cloud covered the late-afternoon sun, shading Nate’s face. The grandfather clock in the living room chimed five times. On cue, Nate’s stomach growled. Come to think of it, she had not offered him breakfast or lunch. Most people working eight hours out of a day deserved a meal.

“It’s quitting time,” Amelia said.

“Or happy hour,” he suggested. “What do you say?”

Laughter escaped her lungs. “I remember the last time I drank with you.”

“You say it with such a frown that my ego insists on a do-over.” In a quick swoop, Nate lifted his leg over the chair and advanced on her.

With the sink at her backside, Amelia had nowhere to go. The only thing possible was pressing her arms against his chest—his massive, hard chest with muscles that she’d watched flex and glisten in the sun. The memory of the ease with which he’d swooped her into his arms and carried her toward the bed, where he’d feasted on her body, flashed through her mind. Desire pooled between her legs. Why was she stopping him?

“Hold on.” She found her bearings. “This is not happening.”

“Because you want free labor?”

“Because you played me,” Amelia corrected.

Nate sealed her against the sink by pressing one hand on either side of her. “I thought I explained myself.”

“So? A murderer doesn’t get a get-out-of-jail-free card by explaining the way he killed someone.”

“You’re warped,” Nate said with a laugh. “You know that?”

“I’ve been called worse,” Amelia said, shrugging.

The height difference between them without her heels was blatantly obvious when he straightened. Nate belonged on the runway or a basketball court. His thick brows rose with a question.

“Tell me about it over dinner.” His voice softened with apparent concern and his hand snaked out to take hers. “Off the clock.”

At least at dinner, Nate would be covered. Of course, Nate possessed the ability to make a duffel bag look good. “I don’t think so. I don’t go out when I’m in town.”