She set her fork down and leaned back a little, her plate barely half finished. “That was amazing. The sauce . . . you made that from scratch?”
“Cheat-scratch. I didn’t have time to start from fresh tomatoes, so I used canned ones. Not as good as from the garden, but it works in a pinch.”
She grinned at that. “You’re a man of surprising talents, Graham Sweeney.”
He took the risk of reaching for her hand and lacing fingers with hers. She didn’t pull away, which he took as a good sign. “You’ve got some surprises, too. But keep going.”
The idea that she might be a mystery seemed to faze her, and it took a moment before she could snap out of it. “Uh, where . . .”
“None of the guys took an interest in Zach.”
“Right.” She cleared her throat, and squeezed his hand. He knew she meant it as a sign to let go. Perversely, he squeezed back and kept on eating with his other hand. She might be finished, but he wasn’t nearly done. Not with his food, and sure as hell not with her.
“Henry—that’s Zach’s father—is not a great guy. He’s no evil cartoon villain, or a criminal or anything. Just not a great dad, or that nice of a human. Not someone I should have procreated with. But hey, when you’re eighteen . . .” She lifted a shoulder. “He had a cute butt.”
That made him smile. “I’m sure a cute butt is very important.”
“Of course.” Her eyes drifted down to the seat of his chair, and he had a feeling it wasn’t meant to be ironic. Did he pass the Cute Butt test?
“He’s around just enough to make things miserable when he wants to. It’s his favorite card to play. He knows I love Zach, and worry about his allergies. He knows he can use that to his advantage. He plays with people, manipulating them like Claymation to get what he wants with the minimum effort required. It’s just what he does. And that’s why there can’t be anything between us.”
Graham played gently with the inside of her wrist, feeling her pulse skip and flutter. “I don’t plan on living with the guy, so I don’t know what he has to do with this.”
“Everything. And nothing. But mostly, everything.” She sighed. “It’s hard to think when you do that.”
“Stop thinking then.” His fingers trailed up to the inside of her elbow and back down again. Had he ever felt something as soft as Kara’s skin? “For tonight, could you do that?”
Her eyes widened, and he waited for the refusal. The denial. The put-off.
And waited.
*
“KARA.”
Her brain had all but turned off. The way he stroked her arm—just her arm—had her entire body almost shivering in anticipation. Anticipation of what, she couldn’t really say. Physical intimacy was—despite having a son for proof—really not something she had much experience in. Sex, maybe. But intimacy . . . that was a whole different story.
And the way Graham looked at her, she had no doubt he wanted to become very intimate with every nook and cranny of her body. God, how she wanted that, too.
“Are you cold?”
She blinked, and realized she’d become mesmerized by the touch of his fingertips, to the point she’d blocked out all conversation. “I’m sorry, my mind just . . .”
He smiled a little, then used the palm of his hands to briskly rub at her upper arms. “You’ve got goosebumps. I’ll get you a sweatshirt.”
“No, I—” But he was already up and heading to the back where she knew his bedroom was.
Do not follow him like an eager puppy. Do not follow him.
“Here we go.” He handed her the sweatshirt, but when she just stared at it, he rolled it up from the bottom and carefully slid it over her head. He dressed her like she did Zach when he’d still been too little to figure out where the arm holes in his shirts were, guiding her along the process until she was enveloped in fabric that smelled like him, and—if she were being ridiculous—was warm, like him. It was like being wrapped up in his arms, surrounded by him.
Stupid.
“This is the second sweatshirt of mine I’ve put on you,” he said mildly, sitting in his chair again. “You get cold a lot over here. I’m going to have to start keeping the heat on, or else I’ll be out a lot of hoodies.”
Oh, boy. Might as well be honest. She glanced down at her plate and pushed at her pasta with her fork. Her appetite for food had dried up. “Uh, yeah, I’m sorry about that. I meant to wash it and bring it back.”
“I assumed Zach stole it from the hamper. It’s no biggie.”
“Confession time.” If he could be upfront about things, so lacking in mystery, so could she. He liked her son, and he respected her. She could be honest, even if it pinched her heart a little. “He didn’t steal it. I’ve been wearing it around the apartment.” At his satisfied look, she narrowed her eyes. “What?”
“You’re wearing my clothes. Stealing my stuff and wearing it around your place.”
“Not stealing. Just . . . delayed returning.” She stabbed at a piece of broccoli, which rolled off her plate. She nudged it back on.
“It’s a total girlfriend thing to do.”