The Millionaire Affair (Love in the Balance 3)

There it is again.

The jolt that shot down his spine and made his pants grow tighter. Awareness, pheromones, or maybe good old-fashioned attraction sizzled in the air between them. She looked up, her green eyes widening before she slid the phone into the minuscule pocket of those tight shorts. With Herculean effort, he dragged his eyes to her face.

Well. Sort of. He was distracted on the way up by her shirt: a faded image of the robot from the movie Short Circuit, the word “Input” silk-screened over her left breast.

“You’re home.” Her eyes strayed to the clock on the wall. “Late.”

He palmed his neck. “I know.” A shimmer of regret wafted over him. He’d wanted to tuck his nephew in tonight. “How did things go today?”

She moved to the fridge, looking comfortable opening the appliance and poking around inside. “Good.” She came out with a bottle of water. “Lyon is a bottomless pit of energy, but after I figured out your fancy espresso machine, I was able to cope. Probably why I’m still awake.” She cracked the top off the bottle and took a drink. He watched her delicate throat work as she swallowed, feeling another surge of awareness zip through his bloodstream. “He finally went down after I read him Green Eggs and Ham three times.”

Landon’s features pulled into a tired smile. At least he hoped it was a smile. After the long day, he may be grimacing at her for all he knew. “Three times? That’s too bad.”

“Not really. It’s my favorite book, too.” Her eyes strayed to the box of potato chip bags on the table. “What’s that?”

He lifted a random bag of chips by the corner and pulled out the jalapeño ranch flavor. “You said you liked potato chips.”

A smile spread her luscious lips. “For me?” She no longer wore the red lipstick or the retro dress, but damn, she looked good enough to…

But you’re not “going to” anything, so don’t bother finishing that sentence.

“I assumed we’d share them,” he joked, gesturing to the twelve bags he’d brought home from the office. Windy City had delivered fifty cases of chips to Downey Design today. One would think his employees had won the lottery for how happy they were to get free potato chips. A spark of a thought for their campaign snapped, then fizzled, his brain too tired to lock on to another idea.

He dropped the bag back into the box. “I happen to be in the middle of reimaging the best potato chip brand on the planet.” He sat heavily in one of the kitchen chairs, and she came around the island to stand at the table in front of him.

“You look exhausted.”

“I am.”

“Having branding issues?” She rifled through the box, inspecting the different flavors. Either because she was hungry or checking out the artwork, he couldn’t tell.

Thrown by a woman’s apparent interest in anything he did from nine to five… or ten, he hedged. “It’s a process.” Not that he’d launch into it if she pressed. He preferred to chase problems around in his head until he found the answer. It was in there. Somewhere. Hopefully it’d surface before tomorrow’s team meeting.

“I made spaghetti. Are you hungry?”

The air shifted, no longer crackling with just sexual energy, but with something else. Something familiar and foreign at the same time. She leaned casually on the table, waiting on his answer to her offer of leftovers. If he said yes, would she microwave him a plate? Bring him a fork? Sit with him while he ate and make idle conversation about his day?

The domesticity of the moment hit him front and center, nearly causing him to clutch on to the table to ground himself. Not only about the dinner and casual way Kimber watched him now, but also the discussion about Lyon, almost as if they were a couple and were discussing a child of their own.

Hi, honey. How was your day?

Good, thanks. How was the kiddo? Get anything good in the mail?

Man. It was weird. Weird and sort of wonderful. Landon was suddenly dizzy… and concerned he was far more tired than he’d realized.

Scrunching his eyes closed, he shook his head. “No, thanks. I’m not hungry.”

“Oh. Okay.” She fiddled with the water bottle, her fingers intimately stroking the condensing water that had settled in its plastic ridges.

His voice taut with attraction, his next sentence came out harsh. “I don’t expect you to cook my dinner.”

She blinked at him, her lips parting slightly.

Dammit. He had to get a hold of himself. “That’s not what I’m paying you for,” he added, wincing at his tone. Now he sounded mean. A visual of him in a hole, digging for China, popped into his weary skull.