And I got a reaction.
A soft growl from deep in his chest as his hand tightened slightly in my hair, and it so turned me on that my body involuntarily leaned into his.
But then… he was gone, releasing me suddenly and taking a full step backward. His eyes were hooded and his face impassive, and I would have thought he was unaffected by it all, except his voice was very hoarse when he said, “Good night, Jane.”
Without another word, he spun around, bounded down my porch steps, and jogged across my yard to Cranberry Lane. I watched him—lips in full tingle mode—until he went inside his house and shut the door behind him.
I didn’t struggle all that hard in my decision to cook and bring him dinner. I know I should heed his warning that he’s a “bad” man, but I’m sorry… that kiss was way too gentle for that to be true. As such, I’m going to see what else is lurking under his carefully layered facade that’s designed to keep people away.
After picking up the basket, the dopey smile on my face remains as I head over to Kyle’s house. I have to concentrate to wipe it off, putting on my charming, quirky smile when I knock on his front door at six o’clock on the dot.
When Kyle opens the door and stares at me, he doesn’t look surprised to see me, but, truthfully, he doesn’t look happy about it either. One could argue that he doesn’t look pissed off or put out. Not curious or resigned. He just stares at me without giving me a single hint as to what he might be feeling.
And that’s okay.
I’m standing here, pushing myself into his life, because something happened last night when he kissed me. It was an epiphany of sorts because my entire life has sort of been settled. I had a charmed life growing up, followed my dreams to go to college and became a teacher, and I wake up every day living in a town that I adore with wonderful family and friends. But when he kissed me last night, the realization was clear that I had truly been missing something I had not realized I was missing until that moment. Kyle Harding presents more than just excitement and intrigue into my ordered world. He is an absolute puzzle, and I’m enjoying the process of figuring him out. Perhaps he’s even a bit broken, and while I don’t want to be the one to fix him, I do want to be an integral part in peeling away the outer layers so I can find out who he truly is. I’ve seen enough goodness and gentleness in him to know that he’s not who he thinks he is. While he acts like he wants nothing to do with the world as it exists, I’ve seen enough curiosity within him to consider the possibility that perhaps he could have things he’d never thought were possible.
“Hi,” I say with a shrug since my hands are full. But then I nod down to the basket in my hands. “Brought us dinner.”
His gaze drops down to the basket, and then back up to me. “Us?”
“Well, yeah,” I chastise. “I didn’t cook all this food just for you to eat it by yourself. I get some of the rewards too.”
“Are there any baked goods in there?” he asks dubiously, and I know I’m moments away from him opening the door.
Good thing I threw that bread away. “Nope. Just a pork loin and some candied carrots. I’m a good cook.”
“But the baking leaves a lot to be desired,” he adds on, and I can’t help but grin—not over his backhanded slight that was said all in good fun, but because his arm shoots out and he opens the screen door to let me in.
I push past him, taking in the rustic decor of his cottage. It’s totally a man’s place as there’s minimal decorative touches. The living room is small and boasts only a love seat and a ratty-looking recliner that’s crowded around an old wood-burning fireplace with a red brick mantle. My heart warms when I see my painting hanging over it.
Beyond the living room is a small kitchen. I walk into it, setting my basket on the old, chipped countertop. As I pull out the two casserole dishes—one that contains the pork loin I’d already cut into thick slices and the other holding the carrots—Kyle wordlessly pulls out plates and flatware before turning to the fridge and pulling out two bottles of water.
I dish up our dinners. By silent agreement, we both take seats at his kitchen table that has seen better days. It’s battered wood with nicks and scratches surrounded by four mismatched chairs.
I watch him carefully as he cuts into the pork, takes a bite, and chews slowly, his eyes focused on his plate. But I’m not going to sit here in silence when this is prime opportunity for conversation.
“Any good?” I ask, and he tilts his head to look at me.
He swallows as he nods. “Very good.”
I beam a smile at him. “Thanks. I’d actually made some bread, but well… you’d be throwing me out of your house right about now if I’d offered it to you.”
“You more than make up for the lack of baking skills,” he mutters before spearing a carrot.
“My mom’s a good cook,” I say by way of explanation.