He gestures at the table.

I hesitate. I pinch my arm, and ow, the pain tells me this is real. It looks like a magazine spread. Or a fairytale, and I don’t do fairytales.

Never have.

“What’s the matter?” He’s watching me intently, and his full mouth tightens. “If you’d rather eat outside…”

“No, that’s fine.” I move in the direction of the dining area, my steps dragging, although they’re getting lighter. “This is…”

Incredible. Like a dream.

And I don’t believe in dreams, either. But I wouldn’t mind living in one for a little while.

***

The table is set for two. White dishes, stark against the bare mahogany, fluted wine glasses and shiny silverware. Cloth napkins, folded on the side, and a ceramic hot pot holder. Spotlights hidden over the bay windows highlight the corners of the room, casting a warm, soft glow on the scene.

“On today’s menu is lasagna. Hope you’re not vegetarian.”

“That’s fine.”

He approaches the table leisurely, that slight roll in his gait reminding me of some sort of big cat. Maybe a panther, dark and dangerous—and the way the jeans hang off his lean hips, God. A fine trail of hair leads from his navel into his pants, and a deep V cuts from his hips down. Mouthwatering.

He comes to stand beside me, and I can’t help but stare at the red scar in his side. Recent. Surgical. I give in to the urge to touch it. It’s smooth, glassy.

He jerks back, knocking into the table and rattling the silverware. He lifts a hand to his side, dark brows knotting over his eyes. “I’ll be right back.”

Crap. I wipe my sweaty hands down my sides.

What am I doing here?

Can’t breathe. I move to the bay window, needing fresh air. I turn the handle and push the window open. Wind rushes inside, whipping my loose hair around my face and my dress against my legs. I inhale, tasting salt and gritty particles of sand on my tongue.

My chest aches. I feel… shaken. Overcome. As if all that has happened in my life so far is coming back, rushing me, crushing me.

I miss my mom. I even miss brother and my dad, that bastard. I miss having a home where I can feel safe, protected. Where I don’t have to worry constantly about the things I say or do. Where I can let my guard down. And this man… he’s not safe, I can tell. Not for me.

Neither am I, for him. He’s got it good, housesitting this mansion. Spending his vacation doing the odd job in the garden, cleaning the pool. Meeting girls and inviting them over for dinner. Living a summer dream.

He doesn’t need my shit, especially if it spills over here.

It won’t, I tell myself. It fucking won’t. Relax.

A noise behind me has me spinning, hand going for a gun, heart in my throat.

So much for relaxing.

“Raylin?” He’s standing beside the table, a hot pot in his hands. His oven-mittens are a deep blue, like his eyes which are currently narrowed to slits. His hot gaze rakes over me, leaving a trail of sparks. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Of course.” I look away, hating the heat rising to my chest and neck, the way my body betrays me when I’m trying to appear cool and unaffected. “This smells good.”

“It does.” He leans over, places the pot on the holder. “Haven’t had it in ages. It’s Mario’s specialty, and it used to be my favorite back when I—”

I wonder why he stops, eyes wide as if he’s seen a ghost, one gloved hand resting on the tabletop. A flash of emotion goes over his face. Confusion, fear or pain—not sure.

What’s going on?

“Hey, Storm…” I push away from the window, reaching for him.

He blinks and straightens before I make it, recovering quickly, but that flash of something I glimpsed bothers me like a thorn under the skin and hooks me like a fish on a line. I want to know more about him, find out what thought cut him so deep.

Dammit, no. I came here for the dinner. I’m famished, and the lasagna does smell delicious.

He does, too, an irritating voice pipes up inside my head, and I grit my teeth. He smells like pepper and cinnamon, sugar and salt. Like power and sex.

It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. I shouldn’t ache to rub my nose over his skin, breathe him in, lick a trail down his muscled chest and flat stomach, all the way down to—

“Have a seat,” he says, his voice low, gliding over my skin like rough silk. “I’ll be right back.”

Mouth dry, I slip into one of the chairs and stare down at the fine china and elegant silverware. Odd that they’d let him use all that. Unless it’s their picnic set, or something.

I snicker at the thought—because, hey, china and actual Bavarian crystal, man—as he appears from the direction of the kitchen once again, carrying an open bottle of wine, condensation running down the green glass and sparkling in the light from the spotlights.

Okay, so that’s not what I’m ogling right now. No, I’m staring at his bulging pecs and biceps. Again.

Totally his fault for not putting a shirt on.

“Wine?” I nod, and he pours frothing, sparkling wine into my fluted glass and his. He sets the bottle on the table and grabs a spoon. “Lasagna?”

As if I’d say no. I lift my plate, and he dishes out a steaming piece, béchamel sauce pooling around it. Saliva pools in my mouth, and for the first time tonight my attention isn’t on him.

I wait until he has served himself a piece—because politeness and manners, duh—and then I dig in, unable to hold back a second longer. My eyes all but roll up in my head in pleasure as I take the first bite of spicy-meaty-and-creamy goodness.

Oh God. I stuff my face with it, barely chewing before I swallow. Maybe it’s rude, but I couldn’t care less about that right now. I inhale my lasagna piece and surface only to see if I can have some more.

He’s watching me under dark, lowered lashes. His own food is still untouched on his plate, though his wine glass is almost empty.

My cheeks flame.

“Would you like some more lasagna?” he asks. “Don’t be shy. Told you it was good.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“Why not? You should always do the things you want to do. Don’t let etiquette and others’ opinions hold you back, Raylin.”

“Ray,” I mutter, my thoughts stumbling over one another. “Call me Ray.”

“Ray, then.” He pulls the pot closer to him and digs the spoon inside. He arches a brow at me. “Plate.”

Bossy. I lift my plate, and he places another lasagna piece on it. He flashes me a quick grin. Bossy, and sexy.

It’s a killer combo—so hot I squirm on my seat, throbbing between my legs. It shouldn’t excite me. But it does, like everything about him. The whole package makes me burn—the bad boy look, the gruff, polite manners, the mystery about him, the blue eyes.

I’m a sucker for blue eyes, and that’s all there is to it.

Right.

Trying to bring my mind back on track, I realize he still hasn’t taken a bite. Weird. Didn’t say it was his favorite dish?

He tilts his head to the side. “So you said you’re housesitting for the Bells?”

Shit. Here we go.

“Yes.” My last mouthful is stuck in my throat, so I grab my glass and gulp some wine to wash it down. “Just for a few days.”

He pours himself some more wine. “You’re not from around here.”

Not a question this time. I poke halfheartedly at my food, appetite gone. “Neither are you.”

He glances up, those pretty blue eyes widening for a second. Again he recovers quickly, a smirk pulling at his lips. It’s as if he’s used to bad surprises in his life, and I wonder why that makes my heart ache for him.

Life sucks. It’s a well-known fact.

“I’m from Baltimore,” he says at last, twisting the stem of his wine glass between long fingers. “And you?”

Might as well tell him. Telling him about myself isn’t the issue. The issue is being here, with him. Possibly putting him in danger.