Ugh. I couldn’t keep my train of thought on track when he was staring at me that way, with warm brown eyes and those perfect lips. What was it about him that made me act like a wannabe superhero, and also a moron at the same time? “Forget Roland for now. What I want to know is how you know about Jasper. And don’t tell me you’re a mind-reader. I don’t believe in woo-woo stuff.”
The side of his face wrinkled. I’d seen that expression before somewhere a long time ago. Where?
“You’re not afraid of the paranormal, are you? My sister Lola gets freaked out about anything she can’t explain logically. I have to calm her down with subject changes or logic-talk.”
He had a sister? One he was close to and had to calm down? Huh. I hadn’t ever mentally placed Luke Hotwell in a family context. Just a work one, or maybe a context where he spent time in an orange jumpsuit and leg irons. “You’re saying you do read minds?”
“I’m saying that I don’t think you’re ready to hear my explanation.”
“Trust me, if I weren’t ready, I wouldn’t have marched over here and demanded it.” Duh. “Do I need to sue you for harassment?”
A smile toyed with the side of his mouth, blast it, making me want to touch it with my fingertip. “You’re a surprisingly litigious person for a life coach.”
“I’m—no. I’m not. I’ve never sued anyone in my life.” I shuddered to slough off the accusation, but it hugged my spine. “Seriously. I’m not really that person. Something about you brings out the worst in me.”
“If this is the worst, I’d like to see the best.” He sounded discomfortingly sincere and scooted toward me. “What kind of person are you really, Sheridan?” His gaze raked over me as if on an exploratory mission, but it stopped on my face, as if he was drinking me in. As if he knew something about me I didn’t know.
Or about us.
“What?” I whispered, my voice suddenly hoarse. “What is it?”
“Would you like something to drink? I have juice and hot chocolate.” The thick air between us dispersed some. “It’s from one of those dry cocoa packets, though. Not some kind of home-brewed thing.”
“Disappointing.” I tsked, although I’d personally never made hot cocoa from scratch. “Juice would be nice. Unless it’s guava. I’m not a guava girl.”
“Pedestrian orange.” He got up from the couch and walked around behind me. A shiver lifted the hairs on the back of my neck as the breeze-wake of his passing wafted against my skin.
What am I thinking? I had to swallow hard and try to collect myself as dishes clinked in the kitchen. “Don’t minimize the joy of the OJ by calling it pedestrian. It’s one of life’s greatest pleasures.”
He emerged from his stark kitchen, carrying two glasses with condensation already collecting on the sides, and my mouth watered. Probably only from the orange juice. Another little smile pulled at the side of his mouth.
What time was it? Time to stop noticing the side of Dr. Luke Hotwell’s mouth.
But it’s kind of familiar, and it’s doing something to my heart.
I shot to my feet and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?”
“I just …” Need to run away? More or less.
“What about your orange juice? It’s icy cold. We can drink it and look at the view.”
View. Argh. “Thanks. Bye.” I left both clamshells behind and was out the door before I could taste the french fries or see that quirk on the side of his lip again. And before I could puzzle any more about what it might remind me of.