When they got back to her complex, he left the truck running but got out to open her door. She slid out but came a little too fast, rolling one of her heels, and his arms reached out to steady her.
The touch burned through his jacket sleeve straight to her skin. “Thanks,” she breathed.
He reached inside and handed her the pastry box. “Here you go.”
She looked up at him. “But your piece is in here, too.”
“That’s okay. You can have one now and save the other for later.”
Trouble was, she didn’t want the evening to end just yet. She shrugged off his suit coat and handed it back to him. “Thanks for the jacket.”
“You’re welcome.”
The evening air bit at her shoulders again and she knew she should get inside, but still she hesitated. “Where are you staying, Chris?”
His gaze burned into hers as he answered. “At a motel not too far from the office. I have a kitchenette and everything. I’m renting it by the week until I find something more permanent.”
That didn’t sound too exciting t
o her. She took a breath and said what she really wanted to and the hell with it. “Do you want to come up and have your dessert? It’s not fair for me to take both pieces.”
“You’re sure?”
“Why not?”
After she said it she knew there were tons of reasons why he shouldn’t. They were supposed to keep this businesslike. This would blur the lines. She still had these nagging feelings for him. It was late. He smelled good. And so on...
“I’d like that,” he answered, and he jumped into the truck and shut off the ignition, pocketing the keys.
The door slammed behind her as she led the way to the front doors, his footsteps sounding behind her.
Chapter Eight
Chris’s stomach was a bundle of nerves as he waited for Lizzie to open her door. Tonight had been good. Too good at times. There’d been moments of tension but other moments where their eyes had met and he’d known. Spending the night with her hadn’t been an accident. It felt an awful lot like fate. Something he’d never truly believed in before, but the more time they spent together the more it felt like something beyond his control was engineering his life.
He was bothered especially by the fact that he should be more upset about it than he was. And yet he wasn’t. Somehow being here tonight, with a pastry box of tiramisu, felt strangely inevitable.
The door swung open and they stepped inside. Lizzie hit a switch and the living room was bathed in warm light from the ornate wall sconces. There was the sofa where he’d slept the last time he’d been in town. The efficient kitchen where they’d shared toast and one not-quite-satisfactory kiss.
“Come on in,” she said, and to his surprise she kicked off her heels and left them by the door. She took her box of dessert to the kitchen. “You were right. I have room now.” She smiled up at him wickedly as she put the box on the breakfast counter and opened a cupboard door for plates.
He draped his jacket over an armchair and took a steadying breath. It was just dessert. Except right now she looked impossibly young and innocent with her hair down and the anticipation of the creamy confection written all over her face. How could a man expect to remain immune to that? Added into it that she was carrying his child and he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do.
“I don’t have coffee, sorry. This should probably be eaten with a good cup of espresso.”
“And then I’d lay awake half the night,” he replied, stepping forward and accepting the plate she offered. “Know what would really taste good with it?”
She looked up and he was hit with it again. That sense of rightness that scared the living hell out of him.
“What?”
“Milk. You got any of that in the fridge? Good, cold milk.”
She laughed. “That I’ve got. Boy, we’re really exciting, aren’t we? Sparkling cider and milk on our big date.”
The milk jug was in her hand, halfway to the countertop when she realized what she’d said and started to blush. “I didn’t mean it as a date date,” she stammered.
“Would it be so bad? Being on a date with me?”