A Taste Of Temptation. Carrie Alexander
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Sara and Hailey Valentine were the mother-daughter pair who rented one of the ground-floor apartments. Nice people, even though the mother was always trying to fix him up with her divorced girlfriends, and the girl’s teenage friends couldn’t speak for giggling.
Donovan flushed. “About that. I—I was working.”
He’d declined the backyard barbecue invitation because he’d felt embarrassed about the previous incident with the police. He’d imagined that Zoe would needle him for once again spoiling her party. Hiding out from his neighbors had been curmudgeonly, but he had too many memories of being the boy left out of the fun to put himself in similar situations even now.
Though Zoe wasn’t one to nurse a grudge, she couldn’t resist the chance to tease him. “Working on a Sunday, hmm? I suppose you were busy conducting chemistry experiments in the bathroom.”
“I know how to make a stink bomb.”
“Is that a threat?” Zoe laughed. “I bet you were the kind of boy who got only educational toys for Christmas.”
She was right again, even if the only chemistry experiment he wanted to conduct these days included Zoe as the active ingredient. “How is Sara’s dad?”
“Doing well after an emergency angioplasty. I talked to both her and Hailey a couple of hours ago. They’ll be driving home from Palm Springs tomorrow. I want to do the neighborly thing and make them a casserole so they can have a hot meal when they get in. I just have to find a recipe. And some groceries.”
Donovan was impressed by Zoe’s thoughtfulness. Maybe she wasn’t as flighty as she seemed. He briefly tried to imagine what kind of casserole she would concoct before deciding he’d rather not know. The cooking smells that came from her kitchen were unusual, but at least they were infrequent. At her backyard barbecues, she grilled anything that didn’t move. Her standing pizza order was pineapple-jalapeño.
Sweet and hot and unconventional, that was Zoe Aberdeen. His complete opposite.
“Speaking of nourishment…” She leaned toward his door. “Do you have any food in your house?”
“Of course.”
“My fridge is bare.” She looked up at him, blinking hopefully. “And that sound you hear isn’t the distant rumble of thunder,” she added when he continued to hesitate. She pointed to her abdomen.
He looked down at the strip of flat stomach visible between her tank and the hip-bone-level waistband of her skirt. She was growling. “Not the dog either?”
“Connie doesn’t growl. He’s a sweetie pie.”
“I’ve heard him barking when I take out my bike.” Donovan widened the door. “I can warm up some leftover Chinese if you want to come—”
“Love to!” Zoe darted back across the hall to collect the dog. Nestled in her arms, Falcon was small, white, decked out in a pink rhinestone collar—poor little guy—and twitching his whiskers at Donovan. She nudged the dog higher with her arm. “Go ahead, give him a pat. Make friends.”
“I’m not an animal person.” Donovan extended his hand.
“How come? Allergic?”
The dog’s tongue flicked out, tickling Donovan’s fingers. “No, I just never had a pet. They’re a lot of fuss and bother, aren’t they?” Full of germs, he was thinking, but he found himself scratching behind Connie’s ears.
“Sure they are, but the unconditional love is worth it. I wish I could keep a pet, but at this point it’s a challenge taking care of myself.” Zoe snuggled with the little Maltese, her gaze slanting at Donovan. “But you seem like the responsible type. Want me to take you to the animal shelter and help you pick out a pooch?”
He withdrew. “I’ll think about it.”
Zoe spoke to the dog. “He says he’ll think about it.” She put Connie down, and the animal trotted over to sniff Donovan’s feet. “Do you ever do anything without thinking about it first?”
He wriggled his toes. “I suppose not.”
“Like grabbing a girl and kissing her?”
“What?” She’d startled him again. Had she been reading his mind? “Who? You?”
Her arms windmilled. “Anyone. Me, if you must.”
His arms were leaden. He couldn’t lift them. “That wouldn’t be an impulse. I’ve thought about it too much.”
“Logic rears its nitpicking head.” Not at all put off by his confession, Zoe glanced around. His living room was furnished in a midcentury modern style of low couches and drum lampshades. He supposed all those rerun episodes of The Dick Van Dyke Show and Leave It to Beaver that his mother used to watch in the afternoons had had an unconscious influence on him when he’d gone to the furniture store.
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