Her head dipped again, and she took a delicate bite from the bottom of the Popsicle.
“I’m not sure. I have to sort out the whole ID situation. I’m sure there’s an airline website that will tell me what I have to do. Some government office that can issue a temporary ID, or something?”
Ben thought it unlikely over Labor Day weekend, but he didn’t burst her bubble. She could figure it out on the computer.
Would she come back to his place to use his laptop if he asked, or would that suggestion just scare the crap out of her?
One way to find out.
“I’ve got two ideas.”
She licked the Popsicle stick clean. Heat rushed to his groin, and he shifted in his seat. For fuck’s sake. She had to lick the stick?
He piled all the taco plates onto the tray and carried it to the counter, needing a few seconds to gather his wits. It figured that his libido would crash the party right when he was starting to think he might have some skill at this white-knight business.
When he returned, he must have still looked pissed, because she’d gone round-eyed and silent again. He reclaimed his seat and took a deep, calming breath. “Okay, so two ideas.”
She nodded.
“One, you can come back to my place. I have a computer and a wifi connection. You can hang out and use them until you get yourself sorted for the night.”
Her shoulders tensed, and she folded her hands in her lap. Jumpy as a new cook on the line, and about three times as likely to break something or burn herself.
“Breathe, woman,” he said. “I told you I had two ideas. The second one is I can take you to this restaurant I know in the Village, and we can use the computer in the office.”
She released a breath.
Good.
Definitely good. So why was he methodically breaking his Popsicle stick into fragments so small, he could use them as toothpicks?
He dropped the shards on the table.
“That would be … I think I’d feel more comfortable that way.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do.”
“Not because I don’t trust you. Just because I’d hate to impose. You’ve already done so much for me, and I’m sure you have …”
… a slave woman tied to your bed.
… a broadax by the door that you use to slaughter visitors.
Out of nowhere, Ben chuckled, struck by how strange the situation was. Why should he care that she was so afraid of him when she knew nothing—literally nothing—about him?
“I’m thirty-two,” he blurted out.
When a line appeared between her eyebrows, he clarified, “Not forty-five.”
I used to co-own a successful restaurant. I wrote a cookbook that someone in your family probably bought, with my ex-wife’s name on it in great big letters and mine buried somewhere on an inside page.
I have plenty of money, and I’ve never taken advantage of a woman in my life. I’d keep you safe as houses, May-Belle, and I’d cook you a breakfast that made those big brown eyes roll right back into your head.
But he didn’t say any of that. He hadn’t completely lost his mind.
“I’m twenty-six,” she said, with one of those polite smiles that made him itchy. The smile didn’t match her laugh. It made him want to see what she looked like when she really smiled. Made him want to pin her to a bed and tickle her mercilessly until she was breathless and laughing, completely out of control.
Strange thought. The woman did something to him. He needed to keep a lid on it, or she’d get even more jumpy than she already was.