Chapter 83 83
Justin weighed the lump of lead in his gut and found it to be a mix of disappointment and hurt. Confidence had never been a problem for him. But if he were dead honest, he would have to acknowledge the fact that he felt embarrassed and at a loss as to how to approach the coming day.
He got to his feet, nude, and was not surprised to find he was still hard. It was inevitable. Sherry, despite her mercurial temperament and antipathy, did it for him. Everything about her appealed to his basic male instincts. Her beauty drew him in, but the challenge of wrangling with her kept him interested.
He’d never been one to use a pretty girl on his arm to shore up his masculinity. He was a guy. Looks mattered. To some extent. But a shallow, self-centered female bored him. And boredom was a buzzkill as far as he was concerned.
It seemed pointless to dress when he was headed upstairs to clean up. But then again, he didn’t want to run into his houseguest while in the buff. Time to regroup and make a plan. After a long, blessedly hot shower, he dressed rapidly and peeked out the window. Snow as far as the eye could see. That meant little miss Bennet was still stuck with him whether she liked it or not. That meant he had more time to spend with Sherry. But conversely, if she proved to be even more prickly than usual in the aftermath of their lovemaking, their living situation was quickly going to become too close for comfort.
When he made his way downstairs, he found evidence of Sherry's presence in the form of an empty mug and cereal bowl tucked away in the dishwasher. He fell on the fresh pot of coffee with a mental hallelujah. After two cups, he felt marginally more alert, and all he could think about was finding Sherry.
It wasn’t hard to locate her. She had moved to the back of the house where she was working on her laptop, and playing music from her phone. He followed the sound to the library and opened the door that was partially ajar, “What in the hell are you doing?”
She froze for a second, and then slowly turned her head, casting him a cool, inscrutable look. Full-on ice princess. Damn.
“Doing some work, obviously” She dropped her phone. “Did you need something?”
You. The word hovered on his lips. He swallowed it back. “Not really. When will you break for lunch? I thought I’d throw together a pot of chili and some cornbread.”
Was it his imagination, or did she pale slightly. “You can do that?”
“Cook, you mean? Well, yeah. I’ve been a bachelor for a long time.”
She gnawed her lower lip. “Noon, then…or later. Your call.”
He watched, frustrated, as she returned her attention to the task at hand, effectively dismissing him. She was wearing what for Sherry Bennet were probably casual clothes. Khakis, silver leather flats, a crisp white cotton blouse and a thin black cashmere cardigan tied around her shoulders. Her hair was secured at the nape of her neck, leaving a long, thick ponytail to cascade down her back. For a split second, he remembered what that hair looked like spread across his chest, his legs, his…
He gulped inwardly. “I could teach you,” he blurted out.
This time, she half turned her entire body. Wariness dueled with interest in her expressive eyes. “Teach me to…”
“Make chili.” He felt his neck heat. “If you want to learn. It’s not hard.”
The genesis for his impulsive invitation wasn’t clear. But something about the surprised pleasure in her smile made him glad he had asked.
“I’d love to,” she said simply. “As long as I can’t muck it up too badly.”
“Like how?”
She shrugged. “You know. Food poisoning. Too much salt.”
He grinned, feeling a return of the euphoria he had experienced in the middle of the night. “Meet me in the kitchen in half an hour. Trust me, baby. You’ll be in good hands.”
________
Sherry worked steadily, one part of her brain dedicated to her work and emails, the one that acknowledged and ruefully accepted her ill-advised infatuation with Justin Covington, seemed intent on translating each of his statements into a sexual innuendo.
You’ll be in good hands. Did he intend the erotic subtext? Probably not. She was hyperaware of the fact that she and Justin had recently become lovers. Neither of them had brought up the topic of her leaving. And he had not mentioned the topic of marriage again. She'd basically told him not to, so she didn't know why it seemed to keep coming up in her head.
Feeling disgruntled and exhausted and excited in equal measures, she found her way to the kitchen at the appointed time.
Justin, standing at the stove, turned to face her. “Ah, there you are. I was just getting started. Come here and supervise the meat.”
She hovered in the doorway, all thoughts of food forgotten. Justin was too damned sexy for his own good. He was dressed much as he had been the day before, only with a different shirt. This time, hunter green flannel stretched across the broad contours of his chest and shoulders. It was still hard to get used to seeing him this way.
For years she had known Justin Covington as the sleek, handsome man with the expensive tailored suits and the knack for perfection. He reeked of money and success from his pricey leather shoes to the high-tech Rolex on his broad masculine wrist. But this man, well, hell…she didn’t know what to make of him at all. He was warm and approachable and nurturing. And about as dangerous as a grizzly bear basking in the sun.
One wrong move, and she’d be toast.
Shoring up her defenses, she crossed to where he stood. “Show me what to do.”
Justin stepped back and handed her the wooden spoon he’d been using. “Stir it occasionally and break up the bigger clumps of meat. When all the pink is gone, it will be ready.”
As she took her position, he flanked her, his arms coming around from behind, his right hand settling over hers as she pushed the meat blindly.
“Like this,” he said, almost murmuring in her ear.