Second Time's the Charm

“If you did it subconsciously, how do you know?”

Resisting the urge to kick him under the table, she told herself she’d brought this on herself. She should never have mentioned a problem. Or created one, either. She had no business being turned on by this man. Or even thinking about him at all.

“You said there’s a problem.” Jon spoke up when she couldn’t. “Until I know what it is, I can’t help you out. Or know how to fix it.”

Just like a man—always wanting to fix the problem. Sometimes there was no fix. Sometimes you just had to let it sit. Learn to live with it. Wait for it to go away.

And then she saw the heat in his eyes when his gaze moved to her lips and quickly back to her face.

And she knew. He was enjoying this. At her expense.

That glint gave her the strength to stand up to him?and turn the tables on him, too. If he was trying to make her squirm, she’d just see how well he could take his own medicine.

“You turn me on.”

She had to hand it to the guy. If there were emotions sizzling inside him, he hid them well.

“And?”

“And? And what?” A note of tension entered her voice in spite of her mental demand that it not.

Frowning, Jon dropped his hands back to the table. “I thought there was more.”

“What more could there be?”

“You could be getting ready to blame me for taking advantage of the situation. Or getting ready to tell me that the problem is that you’re afraid I’m going to take advantage of the situation.”

“I just told you the problem. You turn me on. It’s inappropriate. And embarrassing. We’re working together. Not dating.”

“Oh.” He didn’t quite smile, but there was something there. A slight movement at the corner of his mouth. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, you turn me on, too.”

Thank God. No! That wasn’t what she meant to think.

“It doesn’t change anything. We aren’t... You and I can’t be?”

“Agreed,” he interrupted her, nodding. “Completely.”

“Good, then.” She wanted him to kiss her again. And touch her. In intimate, aching places. “So...are we still on for the children’s museum on Sunday?”

“Yep.”

“It’s only open until four so we’ll probably want to leave a little earlier than noon. If that works for you.”

She’d rescheduled breakfast with Papa and Gayle for seven in the morning at a little café by Camelback Mountain where they lived.

“Abe and I are up at dawn. And Sunday’s cleaning day. You won’t get any argument out of either one of us for having to cut that short.”

“We don’t want to overtire him, though, or we risk doing more damage than good with our crowd introduction therapy.”

There, she’d described their activity as “therapy.” Put them right back on professional ground.

“I can pick you up around eleven,” he offered.

“Sounds good. We can leave whenever he starts to wear out and what we don’t see of the museum this week we can get to next time.”

“Okay.”

It was eight-thirty. Still an hour and a half to go before he had to collect his son. So much could happen in that time. People could do things. Lives could change.