Lightning Strikes

His last name rang a bell. “Roy’s Eggs?”

He seemed to hesitate before answering. “My mom sells those, yes,” he said gruffly. A shadow crossed his features.

He took another drink of coffee, but seemed to keep the mug in front of his face afterward. As though not wanting to face something?

Not face Blaine? Uh-oh, and here she was, savoring last night’s sensuous finger play while he was analyzing his great escape. Maybe this was one of those dreaded “morning-afters” she’d heard Sonja and her girlfriends talk about. The guy’s uncomfortable, afraid the woman doesn’t know the difference between a fling and forevermore, and he’s dumb-ass clueless how to deal with it.

Blaine looked down at the scuffed hardwood floor.

Shame. I could sand and varnish this, make it shine like new.

“So,” she finally whispered, “when de bed could’t be redelivered, I decided to do it byself.” There. She was picking up their previous thread of conversation, saving him from having to deal with whatever-it-was-that-happened-between-them last night.

“I see.”

Donovan searched Blaine’s face so long, she had the eerie sense he read beneath her words, sensed her feelings. And for a moment, she despised him for it. Wanted to tell him, in no uncertain terms, that she wasn’t wondering some girly thing like “will he call me?” That she didn’t pine and daydream over any guy…

“Milly let you in.”

“You have a problem with dat?” Blaine snapped. Some of her coffee sloshed onto the floor. Bending over, she wiped it up with the sleeve of her T-shirt.

“No,” he said slowly, looking at the smeared brown stain on her T-shirt. “Milly has a key. I’ve told her to use it when necessary.” He paused. “You didn’t have to do that. I have paper towels, you know.”

“I know.” She slugged back a mouthful of hot coffee, wincing as she swallowed.

“You okay?”

She nodded, afraid to speak. Sometimes even she was aware she was behaving oddly, but damn if she was going to let him know that.

After a long moment, he continued, “I’m still trying to understand why you decided to sleep in my bed.”

Decided? As though she’d planned this little escapade? She bit her tongue, reminding herself that her bed—her gorgeous, magical bed—was at stake. She needed to stay reasonable and calm because the bed was now in this guy’s possession. And wasn’t possession nine-tenths of the law?

“Allergy pills,” she said softly. “Too many. Fell asleep.” She expelled a weighty breath, which unfortunately came out as a scratchy wheeze.

“You sound terrible.”

“I am terrible.” She winced. Maybe she was trying to be calm and reasonable, but it didn’t mean her tongue didn’t move ahead of her mind sometimes. Okay, so she felt bad about what had happened. Not such an awful thing for this guy to know.

One corner of his mouth kicked up in a grin. “No, you’re not.”

“I like to follow the rules.”

His eyes sparkled. “Could’ve fooled me.” He took another slug of his coffee. After swallowing, he said. “Myself, I abhor rules. Maybe you should rethink your stance, be easier on yourself.”

This wasn’t at all what she expected. Rather than ranting and raving at her, he wanted to talk, so she was talking—or trying to. And in return, the guy was acting interested, heck, even sounding concerned.

As though he cares.

Her insides went all swampy. And the way he looked at her—his rugged face softening, those full lips giving her a loose, kicked-up grin, made her feel…special.

Guys often looked at her kid sister this way. Blaine knew because she’d seen it plenty of times. And she never begrudged her sister for it, either. It was part of being the surrogate mom, happy for Sonja’s beauty and popularity. Thankful, even, because Blaine knew life would be easier for Sonja. It wasn’t a bad thing, just a reality. Some people stood a bit more in life’s golden light.

But at this moment, Blaine suddenly had an inkling of what it was like to bask in that light. To feel…cherished.

She swiped at the corner of her eye, hoping Donovan thought it was allergies, not emotion, getting to her. Damn, I’m getting all girly. If this guy doesn’t cut to the chase, wrap up business, I’ll have to do it myself.

“I didn’t take advantage of you.”

She looked up. “Huh?”

“Last night. I didn’t take advantage of you.”

She peered at him, momentarily taken aback by his admission. He looked so…apologetic.

“I, uh, was tired.” He rubbed that spot on his leg again. “Had been up for hours. Days, actually.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Honest to God, I thought I was dreaming. I’d never take advantage of a woman.”

Dreaming. He thought he was dreaming. It had nothing to do with me. She plastered on a smile. “Do’t worry,” she said, forcing herself to sound upbeat, confident.

“What’s Ralph’s number?” Donovan stood, dangling the empty coffee mug off one finger.

Blaine started to look at his face, but all that body was in the way. Her gaze did a slow tour up his jean-clad legs, past that midriff, which underneath that T-shirt she knew to be tight, muscled, and covered with a wild mass of hair.

Finally, she reached his face—solid, angled—and peered into those soft brown eyes. Funny, back in the bedroom, when their conversation had been tense, those eyes had been a turbulent brown—like a dirty, churning river during a winter deluge.

Now they spilled light, the muddy brown shifting to a whiskey color.

“Ralph’s number?” he repeated.

“Od my desk.” Jerome had called her at work and left it. She’d jotted it on one of her sticky notes.

Donovan headed toward the kitchen. “Is he listed?”

She couldn’t remember Ralph’s last name. “My friend who sold me da bed has da numbbb—” she blew out an exasperated breath, tired of being so damn clogged up “—number.” There, she got the word out.

“Got your friend’s number?”

Blaine looked at those whiskey eyes. This was a man who took care of business, no matter what was churning inside of him. She could relate to that. “Sure,” she answered.

A few minutes later, after talking briefly with Jerome, Donovan was punching in Ralph’s number on a kitchen wall phone, its blue color dull, its receiver scarred with what looked to be a burn mark. But old, usable things seemed to be Donovan’s style. The old, torn plaid recliner. Makeshift bookshelf, really a carefully arranged assortment of old cement bricks and two-by-fours.

Donovan glanced at her where she sat perched on a plastic kitchen chair, which she’d guessed was formerly someone’s patio furniture. “I think he owes us one free delivery.”