Here Comes Trouble. Donna Kauffman
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Possibly even a week or two. Or three.
It had been a pretty long dry spell, after all.
“It’s just dinner,” he reminded himself as he trotted down the stairs a few minutes later, hair toweled dry, and the still slightly rumpled long-sleeve tee paired with his jeans. And the increasingly delectable innkeeper was not on the dessert menu. Even if she did look at him like he was dipped in chocolate. And she’d been craving a Godiva fix for weeks.
Funny, he thought, how all those women wanting him for nothing more than his looks or body in Vegas had been a major turnoff. But let Kirby run her soft gray eyes over his towel-clad body a few times and he was fully on board with whatever her little heart desired, no further questions asked.
Yep, that was downright hilarious.
He forced his wayward thoughts elsewhere so he didn’t enter the dining room sporting uncomfortably fitting jeans. Which would have worked out just fine, he was sure, except the instant he entered the dining room, he found her bending over the table, all long legs and sweet heart-shaped ass staring him right in the face. She was wearing form-fitting, soft ivory khakis, an even softer looking, thin blue sweater, and had her hair pulled up off her neck—a perfectly beautiful, slender span of creamy skin that he was a lot more anxious to taste than whatever it was she was presently setting on the table…
Yeah, the plans for his immediate future were now solely focused on taking his seat as quickly as possible, and spreading that neatly folded linen napkin sitting on his dinner plate over his lap instead.
He cleared his throat so as not to startle her, which startled her anyway. She clattered the last dish to the table and turned quickly around, her hand on the table for support. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I should have knocked, I guess.”
“No, no. Don’t be silly.”
He took in the high color blooming in her cheeks and wondered if it was from the heat in the kitchen…or the heat he’d swear was cranking pretty damn good right here in the dining room.
Oh, Brett, my man, you are in very big trouble.
“Kitten okay?” he managed to ask.
“She’s fine,” Kirby said, her gaze running the length of him, then abruptly locking on his. “I, um, blocked off an area on the back porch and made a little bed, put some food and water out there. She’s all set.” The end of her sentence was punctuated by a crashing sound, followed by a rather petrified sounding yowl. “Okay, maybe not so fine.” Kirby headed toward the kitchen and Brett followed.
They found demon kitty attached by its claws on the screen door that separated kitchen from porch.
“I should have mentioned,” he said sardonically, “she likes to climb things.”
“Very funny. I thought I had her penned by stacking some old empty moving boxes.” She gingerly pushed the door open, kitty still clinging to the opposite side, and glanced out. “Well, they were stacked. For such a tiny thing, her climbing skills are already legendary.”
Brett slipped out behind Kirby and tried to calm the still-yowling cat by stroking its head and scratching behind the ears. Instead of hissing and getting more frantic, she quieted, and eventually he could feel the tiny body relax, bit by bit. “That’s right,” he said, keeping his voice low, smooth, “it’s going to be okay.” After a few minutes, he was able to coax the kitten off the screen and into his hands, claws in for a change. “See? We’re here to help you.” He turned to find Kirby staring at him, a bemused expression on her face. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Something,” he countered. “Why the look?”
She tried a “who me?” expression, then shook her head and said, “I’m just trying to reconcile the soft-spoken kitty whisperer with the leather clad biker dude who rolled into my driveway earlier today. I’m betting your biker buddies would have a few things to say about your new sidekick there.”
“Possibly. If I had any biker buddies.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “No?”
He just shook his head.
He noticed her gaze shift to his hands for a moment. Then she seemed to look at the rest of him all at once before turning back to the mess on the porch. He wanted to ask what she’d been thinking just then, but she spoke first.
“I guess we have to build a better kitty trap if we want to eat while it’s still warm.”
He could have told her that as long as they were in the same room together, he doubted anything would ever get cold, but it seemed a bit premature for that. He was still working out her apparent conflicted impression of him…and, admittedly, he was feeling a bit the same about her. A shoot-from-the-hip, straight talker in a ballerina body. But then, maybe he did know a little about not living up to the packaging. She couldn’t help her looks any more than he could his.
He moved in front of her and carefully handed her the kitten. She instinctively balked, and he couldn’t exactly blame her given the fact that her wounds had probably not even scabbed over yet. But to her credit, she carefully took the little heartbreaker and did her best to croon something to it while he went about fortifying the kitty corral. He glanced back at her a time or two, then smiled privately to himself. She didn’t hesitate to climb a towering oak to rescue a stranded baby animal, but he wouldn’t exactly call her naturally maternal. And yet, she was an innkeeper, a caretaker by profession, presumably by choice. Interesting.
“I’ll be right back.” Before she could ask, he headed through the house and up the stacked flights of steps, taking them two at a time. He was back a minute later.
“You don’t have to donate the sweater to the cause,” she started to say.
He shook it out to show the destruction. “I already have. And don’t worry about it.” He knelt again and finished setting up shop, smiling.
“What?” she said, noticing the smile apparently, when he finally stood and brushed off his knees.
“Nothing.”
“Something,” she echoed back at him. “You seemed…amused by my kitty-whispering skills. Or lack thereof.”
“No, no, you did fine.” He took the now yawning little ball of fluff and nestled her into his sweater, where she instantly curled up and went to sleep. He straightened and stood next to Kirby. “They look so innocent when they’re sleeping, don’t they?”
He glanced over just in time to catch her rolling her eyes, which, perversely, made him grin all the more widely.
“We’d better eat while the little devil—I mean darling—naps,” she said.
He laughed as he held the door open for her, then paused to check out the damage to the screen before stepping in behind her.
She looked back and sighed. “I’ll have to tackle that tomorrow.”
“If you have some extra screen laying around, I’ll be happy to replace it for you.”
She smiled now, but it was a wry one. He wouldn’t have thought it would suit her aquiline features, but it did somehow. Or maybe he was finally adjusting his expectations. He wasn’t sure which. But he knew he wanted to figure it out. Figure her out.
“I’m not in the habit of asking paying guests to do repair work on their guest quarters. And this was hardly your fault. I put her out there and constructed the failed playpen.”
“I wasn’t asking to be billed for the damage or offering because I felt guilty. I can do the job and thought it might help. I was just being…friendly.” He smiled in the face of her dubious expression. “Are you always in the habit of not giving your guests the benefit of the doubt?”
“No, of course not.” She immediately smoothed her expression and he almost felt bad for making