Or maybe that was just his imagination. His imagination liked to think that every woman wanted to get into his pants.
He’d sure as hell like to get into Savannah’s. But it would be a smart idea to keep things between them professional. She’d made some keen observations about him on the field today. He could use her expertise, and screwing things up between them with sex might fuck up their relationship. He could end up losing her, and right now that would be bad.
He needed her. He might not know much about this whole image consulting thing, but he knew a good thing when he had it, and so far Savannah’s advice hadn’t hurt.
Getting his carrer on the right track was his number one priority and he needed to be smart and remember that.
Then again, when had he ever done the smart thing?
He threw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, then organized the living room so it wouldn’t look like a jock lived there.
When the doorbell rang, he did a once-over of the place and decided it was going to have to be good enough.
He opened the door and held his breath. Her hair was down, like a waterfall of gold around her shoulders. She wore a yellow sundress and sandals—cute and casual, but she still managed to look elegant and beautiful.
He took the grocery bag from her hands. “I would have bought this stuff.”
“It’s no problem. Next time, you buy.”
“Deal.” He led her into the kitchen.
“I assume you have pots and pans.”
“Yes. My mom insisted I not live on take-out food. I know how to make basic stuff.”
Savannah laughed. “I can imagine her saying that to you.”
He showed her the layout of his kitchen and she started grabbing things while he unpacked groceries.
“I like steak.”
“Good, because you’re cooking them. I also made an assumption that you have a grill.”
“You assumed right.”
She got out a plate and did some basting and seasoning to the steak, but not a lot, which made him happy. Meat should taste like meat, not like other junk. She slid the steaks off to the side, then pulled out lobster.
He arched a brow. “Aren’t you fancy.”
“I like seafood.”
She set water boiling in two pans. One for the lobster and one for the rice dish she was making.
“You get your grill ready. I’ve got everything covered in here.”
He shrugged. “Okay.”
He went outside to start the grill, watching her through the sliding glass door.
It was interesting having a woman in his kitchen, something that had never happened here before. She looked—cute. Domestic. Comfortable. He sure as hell never had a woman come over and cook for him. He hadn’t been lying when he’d told her he didn’t invite people over to his place. It was too personal. If he spent the night with a woman, it was at her place, or at a hotel. There were no sleepovers here, no fixing breakfast in the morning together, no spending the day together. That had always seemed too close to a relationship and he steered clear of those. Building his career was enough of a full-time job. Dragging a woman into the mess that was his life would be more than he could handle. He wasn’t ready.
Though he sure seemed to be doing a lot of relationship-type things with Savannah. Going out for dinner. Having her over to his parents’ house. Dancing with her at his cousin’s wedding. Then again, maybe all those things were coincidence—just the nature of her job and the fact they always seemed to end up together lately.
And relationships were things he sure as hell didn’t want to be thinking about right now. Or ever. Time to focus on food, work, and keeping his priorities straight.
Once the fire was hot enough, he went inside.
Savannah was conducting a symphony. Music played on her iPod. She was dancing as she moved from one task to another. Pots littered the stove. She was preparing lettuce, slicing strawberries, and boiling something that smelled really good. He stayed still, leaning against the doorway to watch as she hummed along to the music, comfortable in his kitchen.
There was that word again—comfortable. He waited for his own discomfort to set in. It didn’t.
She turned around and spotted him. “How long have you been there?”
“Awhile.”
She grinned, not at all concerned that he’d been spying on her routine. “I can’t help myself. Being in the kitchen relaxes me.” She handed him the steaks. “Go cook. I like mine medium.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He got out of her way and did his thing, and let her do hers. By the time he brought the finished steaks in, she had the lobster tail on plates, along with rice and a bed of lettuce for the steaks.
He gave her the plate and she scooped the steaks onto the lettuce, then poured sauce over them, sprinkled a little cheese and a few strawberries over the top of the meat. He frowned.