He liked to think that he’d made the offer for her to stay as a good Samaritan, not to jump her bones, but, hell...how much could one man take?
He pushed open his bedroom door and stood inside his walk-in robe. If he just concentrated on the basics maybe he’d be able to find his self-control and put it to good use.
Because he was not going to be such a jerk as to try and sleep with a woman after his grandfather had nearly died. What kind of callous idiot would do that?
So, sweats or shorts? Which would she prefer? And long or short-sleeved shirt? He didn’t—
‘For God’s sake, man, she’s not going to a fashion show,’ he growled, yanking sweats and a T-shirt off the shelf. He glanced up and caught sight of himself in the mirror. ‘You’ll eat and go to bed. Alone. God knows, looking at you right now you’d be lucky to ever get laid again.’
Deciding to take a quick shower himself, he changed, and dropped the folded clothes on her bed. Then he snatched hers up, ignoring her floral scent as it rose to his nose, and the sound of the shower through the door, and went to check on dinner.
When it was almost ready he turned and found her standing in the doorway.
Dare looked at her. As she had warned, his clothes were much too big. His T-shirt drooped off one delicate shoulder and reached past her thighs even though he’d pulled out the smallest one, and the sweats... She must have rolled them at her waist but even so he could tell they hung low on her hips and brushed her heels when she walked.
She’d finished by pulling her hair into a rough topknot as if she was showing him that she hadn’t made any special attempt to impress him. So different from the other women he had dated who usually took great pains with their appearance.
His fingers tightened around the wooden spoon he held. ‘Hungry?’
Because he was famished. And not for Bridget’s famed pie.
‘Very.’
And there went that fantasy of having her walk up to him and whisper how much she’d like him to lift her onto the benchtop and rip his sweats down her long legs.
‘Sit.’ He gestured towards the small breakfast nook, wishing he’d worn denim instead of soft cotton.
‘So why medicine?’ he asked as he shovelled food into his mouth.
‘My grandfather was a doctor and I used to be fascinated by his little black bag and everything in it when I was young.’
Dare smiled. He could just imagine her with her red hair in pigtails and freckles on her nose. ‘Did you have freckles?’
Her eyes met his. ‘Because of my red hair?’
‘Sure. What else?’
She gave him a pained look. ‘Yes, I did. My mother always said they would fade because I had Nordic blood and fortunately she was right.’
‘So who was the Viking?’
‘My father. And he’d love that description. He thinks he’s invincible and not at all like your typical academic.’ She grinned. ‘But he is.’
Dare stared, transfixed by her avid face as she spoke of her parent. ‘So you come from a smart family?’
‘I suppose so. My mother is a teacher as well, and...’
She stopped and Dare studied the way she stared at her plate as if she’d just discovered a fly on it. ‘And...’ he prompted lightly.
‘And nothing.’
‘You know, Red, talking to you sometimes is like trying to get blood from a stone.’
A hesitant smile tugged her lips upwards and Dare felt an inexplicable urge to reach across and—oh, hell—before he could control it he caught her chin between his thumb and index finger, leaned across the table, and kissed her lips softly. Good God, that felt good, and all he wanted to do was sink into her softness again.
Slowly, reluctantly, he drew back. She blinked her eyes open and looked at him, her gaze smoky green.
‘Why did you do that?’
‘You looked sad.’
She bit into her lower lip and worried at it. Dare was quite sure she wasn’t aware of the action, or what it did to him.
‘I was going to say my sister was a social worker.’
‘Was?’
‘She died a year ago.’
Dare grabbed hold of Carly’s restless fingers on the tabletop. ‘I’m sorry, Red. How did she die?’