Burning Up. Sarah Mayberry
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didn’t know what to do with it. She was twenty-four hours out of the only relationship she’d ever known. Brandon had just snapped her heart in two. She had no business being attracted to another man, especially one she’d just spent the last ten minutes denigrating for being shallow, feckless and immature.
She took a step backward, away from temptation and confusion. Feeling utterly overwhelmed, she glanced over her shoulder, looking for an escape route. The only door she could see led into the walk-in pantry. Good enough. Especially in an emergency. And this was definitely an emergency.
“If you’re after your lunch, I’ll bring it to you in a few minutes,” she said, backing toward the pantry.
“There’s no rush,” he said easily.
She felt the heat of his gaze flicking up and down her body, and her breasts tingled with awareness.
Good God.
Her fingers found the cool wood of the pantry door with relief.
“I have to, um, take care of something,” she said, then she turned and stepped into the pantry.
Standing in the relative dark surrounded by shelves of dry goods, she pressed a hand to her belly, aware of the steady pulse of her elevated heartbeat thrumming beneath her palm. Her breath sounded loud and fast in the confined space and she blinked several times, trying to work out what the hell was going on with her.
This had to be some kind of delayed reaction to what had happened with Brandon. She seized the explanation as if it were a lifeline. Of course that was what it was—some kind of weird expression of grief and loss. Her whole life had been turned upside down. She was bound to feel unsettled and…horny?
Closing her eyes, she made a helpless whimpering sound. Never in her life had she felt so out of control. So separated from her normal self. And she didn’t like it—not one little bit.
SHE WAS NOTHING like he’d expected.
Lucas stared after the chef, a frown pleating his forehead. Those breasts, that ass—he’d automatically assumed they’d belong to a striking Amazonian beauty. A really flexible, nimble, nymphomaniac Amazonian beauty. The kind of woman who littered his world.
But Sophie Gallagher was short. A munchkin, in fact. Her head barely came to his shoulder. Her face was more round and friendly than angled and sexy. If he were casting a movie, she’d be a dead cert for the wacky best friend, but never the romantic lead. Big velvety-brown eyes, a snub nose, a full-lipped mouth and dark red hair in a whimsical pixie cut completed the picture.
Nope. Definitely not what he’d expected.
Not that she was unappealing. Far from. She was just…different from the kind of woman he normally dallied with.
Swiveling on his good foot, he hopped to the living room, since she didn’t appear to be coming back from wherever she’d gone anytime soon. Pulling out a chair at the dining table, he sat and propped his crutches against the table.
Sophie. Her name was Sophie. He guessed she was in her late twenties, although it was hard to tell because she had very clear, youthful-looking skin. And though she might not be the kind of tall, leggy beauty he preferred, there was something earthy and warm about her. The more he thought about her, the more convinced he became that she was definitely worth exploring.
What the hell—it wasn’t like he had any better options on his hands.
The slap of bare feet on the stone floor had him glancing up, and he followed her with his eyes as she walked toward him. She had a rather delicious little swing in her hips, he noted, that made her butt wiggle with each step. And she had that great rack.
Who knew? She might even start a whole new thing for short women with him.
He was about to flash her his most roguish, charming smile when he clocked the meal she was setting before him.
Thin, unappetizing slices of chicken. Steamed chicken, if he didn’t miss his guess. A selection of green vegetables that looked even less appetizing than the chicken, if that were possible. And a white, amorphous blob of what he suspected was cottage cheese.
“What’s this?” he asked, frowning. He was starving, and this crap was so not going to do the trick.
“Lunch. From your diet chart,” she said, her eyes widening at his tone.
“My diet chart…?” he asked, before comprehension dawned.
Derek and the freaking studio.
He had his cell phone in his hands in no seconds flat.
SOPHIE TOOK A STEP BACK from the table as Lucas punched a button on his phone and waited impatiently for the call to connect. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. He was just so very, very good-looking. Not perfect—that would have made him plastic and artificial and repellent. Instead, he had laugh lines around his mouth and a thin white scar bisecting the end of one eyebrow. Certainly flawed and human. And even more devastatingly attractive because of it.
This is what people must mean when they talk about star quality, she decided helplessly. Charisma, magnetism, charm—whatever it was called, he had it by the bucketful.
And she was trapped in the tractor beam of that charisma like an ant in honey. She couldn’t seem to look away, despite having given herself a very firm talking to in the darkness of the pantry. Despite the fact, also, that he’d reacted as though she’d handed him a plateful of radioactive matter instead of a carefully prepared meal.
Help!
Any second now drool would spill out the side of her mouth and she’d start panting in earnest. Completely against her will. Completely against all her better instincts. All because he was tall.
And muscular.
And golden-skinned.
And he had those amazing eyes….
“You want to explain why the hell I’m on a diet?” he barked into the phone, his tone so sharp it made her jump.
Sophie blinked. Apparently when a person was famous, he didn’t need to bother with social niceties like hellos and goodbyes. If that didn’t quite break the spell his physical appeal had woven around her, his next words did.
“It’s not like I’ve ever had a weight problem before, Derek,” he said. “I don’t need to have someone telling me what to eat day and night. Especially when it’s tasteless crap I wouldn’t feed a dog.”
Tasteless crap? That he wouldn’t feed a dog? That quickly, Sophie snapped out of her lust-induced fog.
All her former disdain rushed back, and she felt her lip curl a little as she at last saw past his good looks to the person underneath. Just as she’d expected, Lucas Grant was spoiled. And arrogant. And rude.
She ignored the fact that she’d hated having his meal leave her kitchen so unadorned and flavorless—that was beside the point. She was standing right in front of him, and he’d insulted her without a thought.
“Why on earth would you agree to such a moronic contract clause?” Lucas growled, all his attention focused on his call.
She’d heard enough. Back stiff, she grabbed the plate from the table and turned toward the kitchen. If he didn’t like his lunch, she would make him something else, because that was what she was being paid to do. But it was going to be a long four weeks catering to the needs of such a jackass, that was for sure.
“Jesus, Derek, it’s not like I meant to kick the freakin’ thing. I was drunk. And if Candy or whatever her name was hadn’t left her bloody thong lying around for people to fall over, none of this would have happened.”
He was yelling now, his words echoing off the stone floors and high ceiling as Sophie entered the kitchen.
Shaking her head, she dumped the plate on the counter. On-set accident, her ass. He’d obviously injured himself in some stupid episode that involved