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Of course, he did. What an idiot. I would call him back after dinner and tell him I’d gone with another towing company.
“I took the painting down and told Mrs. Reynolds to get rid of it.”
Her lips trembled and I couldn’t understand why an art project made this stone-cold woman so emotional. But my heart ached for her. I put my hand on top of hers over her drink and squeezed.
“I’m sorry, Sweeney,” I said and meant it. It was important to her, even if I didn’t understand why. I should have been there for her. And I would have been if she’d been there for me.
I snatched my hand back and continued chopping the garlic. “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.”
She stared at my hands and then up at me before taking one last gulp to finish her drink. She walked out into the hallway. “Does your brother have a bottle of wine we can open for dinner?”
“White or red?” I called out.
“I don’t care.”
“There’s a wine fridge on the other side of this island.”
She walked back toward me, pushing her hair out of her face, and bent over the fridge, tapping a finger to her lips. The pale blue shirt rode up the back of her thighs and I couldn’t tear my eyes away.
The frying pan sizzled and water overflowed from the pot, causing the burner to flame up. “Shit,” I murmured, turning down the heat.
Sweeney rushed over with a dish towel and wiped down the mess next to me. “Thanks,” I said.
She turned too quickly and bumped her chest into mine. “Oof!” She placed her hands on my chest to push herself back, but they remained there until she slid them down to my waist.
I froze, unsure if this was the alcohol or Sweeney. I watched her closely as she stared at my shirt and then her hands as she inched them across my stomach. My muscles flinched at her touch and she snatched her hands away.
What the hell just happened?
“Sweeney?” I asked.
The oven timer beeped and she jumped. “Ah, dinner’s ready.”
I nodded but continued to stare at her. She rubbed her arms and sat down at the table, gazing out the window. I drained the pasta, then poured the garlic and olive oil inside the pot and mixed it with the spaghetti. Scooping out two platefuls, I placed the dishes on the wood table in front of her.
“Bon appétit,” I said and passed her the Parmesan cheese.
“Thank you for making dinner,” she said and poured some wine for the both of us.
I raised my glass. “To the future.”
She smirked and clinked her glass with mine. “To the future.”
We dug into our pasta.
“Mmm, this is amazing,” she said. She groaned a little too and the sound vibrated through my body.
“It would have been better with a bit of parsley,” I said, focusing on the flavor of the dish rather than wondering what she would taste like underneath that shirt.
“Pardon?” she asked.
Shit. Did I say that out loud?
“Parsley. I said it needs parsley.”
She squinted and then looked down at her wine. “I think this should be my last glass.”
I nodded and wiped the bead of sweat from my brow. I didn’t speak for the rest of the meal, worried something stupid would come out of my mouth and she seemed content with the silence.
