More Than Anything (Broken Pieces #1)(61)

“What?” she asked. “Do I have something stuck between my teeth?”

She lifted a knife and bared her straight pearly whites to check. She ran a tongue over her teeth, making little sucking sounds as she probed behind them.

“Did I get it?”

“No . . . I mean. There’s nothing in your teeth.”

“Why are you staring, then? Oh God! My nose?” She lifted her hand to cup her palm over her nose, and he chuckled.

“Your nose is clean as a syringe.”

“What? Seriously, you’re doing that deliberately, right?” she asked incredulously, and his brow lowered as he tried to figure out what she meant.

“What do you mean?”

“A syringe? Syringe? That’s the weirdest one yet. You know it’s whistle!”

“Why would it be whistle? That’s fucking gross. Think of the spit in a whistle. A syringe has to be completely hygienic. I can’t think of anything cleaner.”

Well, she couldn’t fault his logic.

“Is English even your first language?” she muttered, looking completely put out with him, and he laughed.

“So why were you staring at me?” she asked moodily, and he felt a little self-conscious about admitting the truth, sure she would shut him down the moment he said it.

“I was just appreciating how pretty you are.”

Her expression froze, and she stared at him unblinkingly. It was unnerving—he wasn’t even sure she was breathing.

“You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

“There are some people who would argue with you.”

“Why should I, or more importantly you, give a fuck about what those people think? You’re beautiful. You’ve always been beautiful.”

Her face went an unbecoming shade of red. It was cute how unflattering a blush was on her pale complexion. It didn’t detract from her beauty but added to her charm.

“I don’t care what they think.” The emphasis on the personal pronoun told him that she still believed Harris cared what they thought. Of course she did. Nothing he said would ever dissuade her from thinking that. “I haven’t cared in years.”

He said nothing, not prepared to argue the point with her. Not when they were having such a great evening. If he was leaving tomorrow, then he wanted this to be a good memory. One that could—if not replace—somewhat diminish the memory of that terrible night ten years ago.

“Any dessert?” he asked, deliberately changing the subject.

“Dessert? Mister, you must not know whose house this is. Of course there’s dessert,” she said, her voice light. She seemed as keen as he to just let any contentious matter fall by the wayside.

He watched as she jumped up and practically skipped to the fridge. She was wearing another pair of those ass-hugging leggings he so enjoyed; these were electric blue and were combined with a loose, slouchy orange top. The color clashed horribly with her hair, and she clearly didn’t care. The top kept sliding off one smooth, rounded, naked shoulder, and he’d found himself speculating throughout the evening about what she could possibly be wearing under it. No bra strap didn’t automatically mean no bra, but he could—and did—fantasize about that exact possibility.

How easy it would be to slip his hand under that top and find her breast. His head would follow his hand, and he’d happily lose himself under that roomy garment, exploring every charm she had to offer.

He shuddered, fighting to bring his raging hormones under control. She was bent at the waist as she rummaged around in her fridge, and he had a perfect view of her round, firm butt. God, he wanted to cup that ass, caress it, stroke it, bite it . . .

He easily imagined getting up from the table, walking up to her, lining himself up behind her, reaching out with his trembling hands, and . . .

“Harris?”

Jesus!

He blinked, coming out of his erotic daze, and stared into her wide eyes for a long uncomprehending moment. She was speaking, and he couldn’t quite make sense of the words. All he could think of was pulling down those leggings and easing into her warm, welcoming femininity from behind.

“Harris, snap out of it!” She was repeatedly clicking her fingers in front of his eyes, and he lifted his hand to gently push hers out of his face.

“Stop that,” he remonstrated mildly.

“Where did you go?” she asked curiously, sitting down across from him.

“No place you’d be interested in going. Not with me.” Well, that came out sounding a lot more bitter than he’d intended. “I thought you were getting dessert.”

She cast her eyes pointedly down to the table, and he frowned when he saw the bowl of delicious-looking chocolate mousse placed in front of him. He hadn’t even noticed her putting it there. Okay, so he’d been a little more preoccupied than he’d realized.

“Thanks,” he said, picking up a spoon and sampling the rich dessert. The creamy chocolate melted in his mouth, and he moaned involuntarily as angels danced on his tongue. He felt his cheeks heat at his embarrassing overreaction to the treat. “This is great. Did you make it?”

“Hah! Nice one, Harris. You know I couldn’t do something like this if my life depended on it. Libby made it, of course.”

“Of course,” he parroted dumbly. He should have recognized it as one of Libby’s desserts; she always added the tiniest hint of orange to her chocolate mousse.