Propositioned by the Playboy. Cara Colter
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He hadn’t eaten yet.
And that’s how it was that he showed up on Beth Maple’s doorstep a half an hour later with a Mama Marietta World-Famous Three-Topping Pizza and a six-pack of soda.
Beth opened the door, which gave him hope, because she’d peeked through the security hole and clearly seen it was him. But then she had folded her arms over her bosom like a grade-five teacher who intended not to be won over by the kid who had played hooky.
She was wearing a baggy white shirt and matching pants, that sagged in all the wrong places. Pajamas?
The outfit of a woman who did not get much company of the male variety by surprise.
And that gave him hope, too, though what he was hoping for he wasn’t quite ready to think about.
So he thought about why he had come.
“Peace offering,” he said, holding out the pizza box so she could see the name on it. Nobody in Cranberry Corners could resist a Mama’s three-topping pizza. “And apology.”
“Where’s Kyle?” she said, peering into the darkness behind him.
“No Kyle tonight.” And lest she think he was an irresponsible guardian, he said, “Kyle’s at the planetarium, with Mary Kay somebody.”
“Ah. I have to say I didn’t see that one coming. Or this one.”
She was speaking to him. After he’d been thoughtless and cruel and insinuated no one would break down a door to kiss her.
“Are you going to let me in?”
“I’m going to think about it.”
“You know something, Miss Maple? There’s such a thing as thinking too much.”
“Probably not a problem in your world, Mr. Anderson.”
“Not generally.”
And then her lips twitched, but she still didn’t open the door.
“Okay,” he said, “I’m getting the fact that somehow you are finding me resistible, but Mama’s pizza? Three-topping? Come on.”
“What three toppings?” she said.
“Mushroom, pepperoni and the little spicy sausages.” He could see her weakening at the mention of the sausages. Which under different circumstances could be quite insulting to a man like him. She could keep the door shut to him, but not sausages?
“There have to be some rules in place,” she said.
“There’s such a thing as too many rules, too.”
“There’s the whole thing about dating family members of my students.”
“This isn’t a date!” he protested. “It’s a pizza.”
“Well, there is the complication of the kissing that you brought up earlier.” She blushed when she said it.
“Okay,” he grumbled. “I won’t bring up kissing.”
“You can’t even think about it. Since we are unchaperoned this evening.”
“Miss Maple, you cannot control what I am thinking about!” Especially now. Because she’d mentioned it, and his male mind had locked in on the delicate curve of that puffy bottom lip.
Suddenly this whole thing seemed like a really stupid idea. What had he come here for?
To make amends or to steal kisses? What did you do with a gal like Miss Maple once the pizza was gone? Play chess? Who on earth used the word unchaperoned if they were over the age of twenty-one?
“Look, I’ll just leave the pizza. With an apology. I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings this afternoon. By insinuating a man wouldn’t break down your door to kiss you. Because the right man probably would.” He was making a mess of this somehow.
“You just said you weren’t going to bring up kissing!” she said.
“But then you said I couldn’t even think about it. Which is ridiculous.” What man wouldn’t think about it in close proximity to those lips? “Miss Maple, there’s an elephant in the middle of the room. We can’t just pretend it’s not there. Maybe we should just get it over with.”
“What?” she squeaked. “Get what over with?”
He sighed. He couldn’t believe he’d actually said that out loud. “Do you want to share the pizza with me or not? It’s getting cold. I’m not asking you if you want to build a cabin in the wilderness with me and have my babies, for God’s sake, just because I find your lips, um, provocative.”
“I don’t think it’s wise for you to come in,” she said.
“I agree, but let’s live dangerously.”
She contemplated that, as if inviting him in would rate as the most dangerous thing she had ever done.
He better remember that when he was looking sideways at her damn provocative lips. She didn’t know the first thing about how to handle a man like him, despite her claim that her door had been knocked down for kisses before.
He actually wondered if he should do it. Just knock the door down and kiss her, so she could see it was not what she feared.
Except he had a feeling it might be more than he feared. If you kissed someone like her, you’d better not do it lightly, without thinking things all the way through to the end. That was the problem with him, and most men, no impulse control. Act now, pay later.
A little cabin in the woods filled with her and their babies didn’t seem like such a terrible consequence.
The thought nearly sent him backward off her step, nearly sent him running for the truck.
Except, the door squeaked open.
“Behave,” she told him in her sternest, grade-five-teacher voice.
“Yes, Miss Maple,” he said meekly.
He reminded himself as he stepped over her threshold that he had come here to make things better, not worse.
Her inner sanctum was as he had known it would be, and it made him feel big and clumsy and menacingly masculine. There were ceramic vases on the floor, where they could easily be toppled by a wayward size-eleven foot. There was a huge clear-glass bowl with real flowers floating in it right on the coffee table in front of her television. One too-enthusiastic cheer for a touchdown and it would be goodbye flowers. And bowl. Probably coffee table, too, flimsy-looking thing on skinny, intricate legs.
Beth’s was clearly a world for one: everything in its place, and everything tidy. Despite the fact the breakability factor made him somewhat nervous, there was nothing sterile or uptight about her home. Her space was warmed by tossed cushions and throw rugs, the walls were bright with beautifully framed artwork from her students.
She cast a look at her white slip-covered sofa, decided against it—whether because pizza and white didn’t go together, or because it looked too small to hold two people who were going to behave themselves, he wasn’t quite sure.
He did notice on the way through that this house was loved: hardwood reclaimed, moldings painted, windows shining. She led him through to the kitchen. It still smelled of the cookies she had baked that afternoon.
“What were you doing?” he asked, when she hurried over to the stove and shut off the burner.
“Making soup and doing a crossword puzzle. The soup couldn’t compete with the pizza.”
He stopped himself from asking how he compared to the crossword puzzle. It was still out, on a teeny kitchen table that could barely accommodate one, though there were two fragile chairs at it, with skinny, intricate legs that matched those on her coffee table. There were fresh flowers on that table, as well, and he was willing to bet she had bought them for herself.
The tinyness