She snorted and then turned away, clearly over him.
He told himself that worked for him. Completely. Socializing wasn’t high on his list of priorities. Hadn’t been for three weeks now. Getting hit by a truck full of big-game poachers making their getaway had put a real kink in his life plan. But since it had nearly put a kink in his life period, he wasn’t complaining.
Much.
And he’d caught the bad guys. Or some of them anyway, though their ringleader, Tripp Carver, aka the Butcher, had eluded him—which the slippery son of a bitch had been doing for three long years now.
A fact that infuriated Parker beyond reason.
Around him, the kitchen smelled delicious, and his gaze locked in on the plate of cookies on the far counter. Homemade cookies. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had homemade anything, and like Pavlov’s dog he migrated over there, passing an open laundry room on the way. In the doorway hung the only thing that could have taken his eyes off the cookies—a row of enticingly lacy and silky things in all colors and textures.
Damn. They were hot as hell, especially when he pictured them on the leggy brunette trying to ignore him every bit as much as he was trying to ignore her.
But then she caught where his gaze had gone and gasped in clear horror at the sight, as if she’d completely forgotten the things were there. To his dismay, she started snatching down the panties and bras, shoving them into a basket.
“Sorry,” she said, grabbing something black and lacy. “It’s been a hectic week.”
“No apologies necessary.” His voice sounded rough and husky to his own ears, but his brain was very busy picturing her in that black and lacy number and it was messing with his entire equilibrium in a big way.
“It’s laundry day,” she said, her cheeks red as she hugged the basket to herself. “The dryer’s harsh on delicates.”
“I’ll remember that. I’ll be sure to hang all my delicates,” he said.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like laughing so much in such a short period of time. Not surprising as the entire first part of the year he’d been on a joint task force between the Department of Justice and the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, stuck in a courtroom testifying on a case for two months. For most of that time he’d alternated between wanting to bash his head against the wall in frustration at the snail’s pace of the case and yearning to get back in the field, back to doing what he did best—sniffing out the asshats of the animal world.
Which was why he’d landed here in Sunshine. But all that had been set aside in his brain at the sight of the hot undies.
Now that they’d been stuffed away, he was back to the cookies. Mouth watering, he snagged one. “These smell amazing.”
“Wait!” she cried, and then froze because it was too late, he’d popped the cookie into his mouth.
He froze, too, because it was possible he’d never tasted a worse chocolate chip cookie, not even in the history of ever. He managed not to choke on it, barely. Normally he didn’t care much what people thought of him, but Zoe was kind enough to let a perfect stranger stay in her house simply because her brother had asked.
And also, she was hot and so were her undies, so he very carefully chewed and swallowed manfully when what he really wanted was to spit that crap out. And it was crap. Bad crap.
“So, what do you think?” she asked.
Ah, shit. He hated when a woman asked him that, or anything to do with his opinion, like did her pants make her look fat, or was her haircut okay, or did her cookies suck . . . because deep down she already knew the truth.
He could lie. He was good at lying, real good. But though he couldn’t have explained why to save his own life, he didn’t want to lie to Zoe. “Too much baking soda,” he said.
She tightened her lips.
“You want me to go now, right?” he asked.
She let out a low laugh. “No, I want to throw away the cookies.”