He shook his head as if she was a little girl who needed indulging. “It’s as simple as turning on the stove, Libby.”
“Well good, then.” She rose slowly so as not to jostle him, gathered the silverware onto the empty plates, and with dishes in hand, headed toward the door. She’d come back for the money after she ate.
“Libby.”
She turned around, startled by the serious tone of his voice.
“I don’t know why you’re here or what you hope to get out of this, especially considering our past, but…I suppose I should say thanks.”
Warmth swelled deep inside of her. “You’re welcome. And I’m not expecting anything, really I’m not. Not a blessed thing.”
*
Chance watched her sashay out of the room, her denim-clad hips swaying and her cute little backside wiggling, and wondered which hurt most—the pain from his injuries or knowing she was here and not available. She’d been dressed in a simple tank top and denim skirt, but on her it looked like high fashion.
It had been difficult to hear about the man in her life, but he knew he should be relieved. Another huge reason she should be off limits.
Why she still tempted him was as much a wonder as why he’d allowed himself to be fast-talked into letting her stay. Could be those two things were related.
He had to be stronger than that. He had to stop wanting her to care, really care, like for a lifetime, not a hospital stay. Hadn’t he stopped believing she could? Wasn’t five years of treading emotional waters enough?
What he still couldn’t figure out was why she had come. He was sure there were other people she could have stayed with. Like her soon-to-be fiancé. If it wasn’t to start things up again, which he could never let happen no matter how much he wished things were different, why was she here?
Guilt?
Probably.
Or worse, feeling sorry for him.
He needed a dose of reality if he still yearned for the sweet, giving young woman who had shown him what it felt like to be loved, to be valued, to be needed. She didn’t exist. He had to accept that.
But watching her very feminine form walk out of the room was making it hard—in every way. Good thing he was in enough pain to squash his physical reaction. But it didn’t stop the craving.
What he needed was to get laid. But that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. No, there was nothing that was going to save him except sheer willpower and a long memory.
A movement near the door caught his eye. A sleek black feline walked into the room, tail waving.
“Didn’t you get the memo, cat? You’re not welcome in here,” Chance said, more amused than annoyed.
The cat stopped as if he understood what was being said, gave a long look in Chance’s direction, and continued his progress with tail erect. He may have heard, but he wasn’t listening. Just like his frustrating owner.
Chapter 8
After settling into her room, Libby had gone for groceries and came back two hours later loaded down with meal fixings, including, steaks, chops, chicken breasts, and ribs—all food that could be grilled—and a cookbook on barbecuing she’d found in the sale bin near the store’s paperback section.
She was armed and dangerous, she thought as she stowed the food in the nearly empty freezer and sparsely stocked refrigerator. Frozen vegetables at least came with directions, and she could do a baked potato in the microwave.
She’d bought chocolate ice cream—a favorite of Chance’s, if she remembered correctly. And fixings for apple pie, including a frozen piecrust. She’d never picked up the knack of rolling out her own dough despite her mother’s many attempts to teach her.
After everything was put away, she acquainted herself with the rest of the house. The beamed-ceiling great room that fronted the house looked like a nice place to curl up with a book. Two saddle-leather couches framed a large fieldstone fireplace, over which hung a big-screen TV. Another leather chair sat by a large, drape-framed window overlooking the corrals. A western patterned rug covered the polished wood floor. It looked a lot more inviting than her father’s den at home. She squinted at the small, framed photo on the fireplace mantel. The picture was of a much younger Chance smiling as he stood hand in hand with an older man. But the older man looked too old to have been Chance’s father.
Off to the left and across the hall from the kitchen was a room with a massive wood desk. Lining the near wall were bookcases filled with all sorts of books—western history, mysteries, spy adventures… She didn’t venture in but stood at the edge of the doorway. There were papers scattered across the desktop, and Libby had no inclination to snoop in Chance’s private business. She decided she’d best get down the hallway and check on Chance before she started supper.