Love Handles (Oakland Hills #1)(44)

He cracked open an eyelid. “That’s it? No more fight?”

She shook her head and yawned again. “I’m too tired. And you’re right—I was afraid to be alone.” The uneaten sandwich on her plate looked more appetizing than it had earlier. She picked it up to take a bite on her way to the kitchen.

“White bread has a higher glycemic index than pure table sugar, you know.”

She had just been about to toss it in the garbage. Now she stopped and rotated in place to see him watching her. She lifted the sandwich to her mouth and slowly ate every bite, his eyes never leaving hers. “Mmm,” she said, then licked her lips.

He didn’t say anything but the contempt in his eyes transformed into something worse, something she’d endured her entire life in her Orange County enclave of exercise and fitness nuts—evangelical zeal. “I’ll make you breakfast in the morning,” he said. “Before you die of nutrient deprivation.”

If there was one thing Bev knew about herself, it was that—unlike every woman in her family—she had never suffered from nutrient deprivation. Eating everything and anything would do that for you. Forgetting to be afraid of the shadows, she went around the house, turning off lights and trying not to peek at him sprawled on the couch, watching her.

He sat up. “You’re wearing Fite.”

She glanced down at her sweats then back up at him. “They were at T.J. Maxx.”

His gaze dropped down to her thighs, down over her calves, to her feet, slowly back up. “They fit you pretty well.” Then he frowned. “You sleep in them?”

Smiling, she nodded. “Nice and stretchy.”

“Never exercise, you said. Never?”

“Nope.” She turned around to let him judge her big soft butt while she turned off a wall sconce on the way to her bedroom. “And never will.”

Just as she walked out of sight she heard his low voice rumble out from the living room.

“We’ll see about that.”



She woke to the smell of vanilla. Her eyes popped open, expecting a sugar cookie on her pillow, only to see Liam standing next to her bed holding a beer stein as big as his shoe.

“I’m not thirsty,” she said, though the sight of him and his tousled blond hair and his rumpled t-shirt did make her want a drink. Even his hands, wrapped around the brown mug, were sexy—not too hairy, not too skinny, just solid and clean and shapely.

Christ. I’ve lost it. She rolled her head back on her pillow and closed her eyes, the vision of long tapered fingers burned onto her retinas.

“It’s a protein smoothie.” He dropped the mug with a thunk on the nightstand. “I made one for both of us. Sorry to wake you but the ice is melting.”

She cracked open an eye. “I had protein in my kitchen?”

“No, which is why I had to walk over to my mother’s.” His mouth flattened. “She says hello, by the way. I’ve assured her you are not dead.”

She looked up at him from flat on her back, reluctant for him to see her sit up without a bra on. She pulled the covers up to her chin. “Very not dead. And yourself? How was the couch?”

“God-awful. Even my elbows are sore,” he said, rubbing them. “ How much do you want for it?”

Smiling, she looked over at her breakfast without picking it up. “Why the beer mug?”

“Only one big enough.” He bent over, picked it up, and shoved it towards her. “Sit up and drink it before it loses its froth.”

“Froth?”

“Best part.” He nudged the rim of the cold, wet glass under her nose. It was going to leak onto her sheets unless she sat up.

Bravely deciding it was her duty to demonstrate how real breasts reacted to gravity, she wriggled upright and took the glass in both hands. “Thanks. I don’t usually drink this stuff.” As she feared, his eyes fell to her chest and stayed there.

He cleared his throat and to her surprise sat down on the edge of her bed, pulling the comforter taut over her lap. “Do you like it?”

Bev met his eyes over the glass, took a sip, and nodded. It was delicious.

“I put in a few of my mom’s home-grown strawberries,” he said. “And it’s real milk, which I like, but I know some people—”

She wiped her lips. “It’s good, thank you. Cold, but sweet.” Like you, she thought, then felt a stabbing alarm that she was starting to like him. That she had always kind of liked him. But then she assured herself she should like her top VP—though not because he brought her high-protein beverages in bed and had gentle, intelligent eyes.

He slapped his thighs and got to his feet. “Drink all of it. It won’t keep in the fridge. And from the looks of the groceries you’ve got around here, you need the sustenance.” He strode out of the room, his old jeans hugging each firm buttock, and Bev wondered if he had slipped something into the smoothie because she felt herself getting hot and energetic.

Snap out of it.

She took another sip, her tongue getting used to the cold, and gulped down a thick mouthful. It wasn’t waffles, but it was pretty good. Very good. It would have gone great with a cheeseburger and fries.

With a sigh, she leaned back on her pillows and listened to the sound of water running in the kitchen, thinking it gave the house a cozy feel it desperately needed. She didn’t have to worry about break-ins or angry relatives—her executive vice president was on duty with big muscles and a sour disposition. She was safe.