Bedroom Secrets

“There’s only one motel in walking distance and it’s not exactly cheap.”

She chewed on her lip. “I’ll figure something out. Maybe I can find a shelter.”

“Not in Chapel. This is a small city. We don’t have the funding for that—or the need.”

She began to wring her hands together and he could tell she was on the verge of panic.

“Tell you what,” he said. “You can come home with me.”

“With you?” she said warily.

If someone had told him yesterday that he would make her an offer like that he’d have laughed at them, but was it really such a bad idea? He could be in the same room with her and not hyperventilate. Maybe they could spend some time together and in doing so he could work through this anxiety thing. Maybe this was exactly what he needed.

Not only that, but he liked her. And admired her bravery. The women he dated wouldn’t last an hour on the street. This girl—woman—was tough. But soft and sweet around the edges.

“I have a vacant flat above my garage. You can stay there as long as you need to.”

She looked as if she was seriously considering it for a second, then shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. I have no way to pay you.”

“So you’ll pay me later, when you have money.”

“Suppose I never have enough money? What then? I couldn’t take advantage of your hospitality. Unless…”

“Unless what?”

She shook her head. “Forget it. It’s a dumb idea.”

“Tell me.”

“I was thinking, maybe if you needed a cook…”

He leaned forward. “You can cook?”

She gave him an indignant look. “I’m half Italian. Of course I can cook.”

The only thing Ty enjoyed more than a beautiful woman was a home-cooked meal. Unfortunately, he hated cooking and the food his mother prepared typically had the flavor and consistency of cardboard. “What are we talking here? Just dinner, or do I get breakfast, too?”

“Do you want breakfast?”

“Hell, yeah. I’d say breakfast and dinner every day are definitely worth a month’s rent. To be fair, I should probably give you the house and I’ll take the flat.”

“Oh.” A shy smile curved her mouth. “The flat is fine. I don’t take up much space.”

“Okay, but I’m definitely getting the better end of the deal.”

“And I still get to keep the cleaning job?”

“Absolutely.”

“You’re not going to change your mind in a month and tell me I have to sleep with you?”

That’s the one thing he could offer without a hint of hesitation. “I am not going to ask you to sleep with me.”

She gave him a scrutinizing look. “You promise?”

“Yes, Tina DeLuca, I promise.”

Four

Ty smelled fresh coffee.

He rolled over in bed, peering with one eye at the clock. It wasn’t unlike his mother to pop over unannounced and cook for him, but at seven-thirty in the morning?

He stretched and scratched his chest, wincing as the tender skin smarted under the scrape of his nails, and he remembered the fiasco last night. Then he smelled something cooking, something mouthwateringly wonderful, and realized that it definitely wasn’t his mother in his kitchen.

He sat up, salivary glands tingling in anticipation.

Bacon. It was definitely bacon. And despite the fact that he’d gotten less than six hours of sleep, he was out of bed and heading for the shower in a heartbeat. Within ten minutes he’d showered, shaved and dressed, and was pounding down the stairs to the kitchen.

Tina stood at the stove, poking at something in a frying pan with a wooden spoon. She saw him standing there and flashed him a bright smile. It had been close to one-thirty in the morning when he’d gotten her settled in the one bedroom flat above his garage, but she looked well-rested. Her dark hair was damp and pulled back in some sort of clip thingy, but tendrils hung loose around her face. In jeans, tennis shoes and a pink sweatshirt, she didn’t look a day over seventeen. And cute. She looked damned cute.

He hadn’t broken out in a cold sweat at the sight of her there and his heart rate was steady and normal.

So far so good.

“Good morning,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind that I let myself in. I wanted to get started on breakfast.”

“Works for me,” he said, taking a cup down from the cupboard and pouring himself coffee. “How’s the flat? Are you comfortable?”

She breathed a blissful sigh. “It was heavenly. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in days.”

He stirred creamer into his cup and took a sip. Not too strong, not too weak. She brewed a hell of a pot of coffee. He was really going to like this arrangement.

“There wasn’t much in the fridge so I had to improvise,” she said. “I hope you like omelets.”

“I’ll eat pretty much anything. When you have a mother who cooks like mine, you either starve or develop an iron stomach.”

Her eyebrows rose a notch. “She can’t be that bad.”

“She’s worse than that bad. But she means well.”

She looked as though she didn’t believe him. “I made up a menu for you to approve, and I’ll need some supplies.”

He had figured she would just cook whatever, and he would eat it. He had no idea he would get to choose, or that she would take this so seriously. “I’m sure anything you make will be fine and after work today we can stop at the market and pick up whatever you need.”

“Have a seat, it’s almost ready.”

He watched from the table, practically drooling in anticipation as she rearranged the food on a plate—omelet dripping with melted cheese, strips of crispy bacon, golden fried potatoes. When she placed his plate at the kitchen table and he took his first bite, he felt like the luckiest man alive. “This is fantastic.”