*
In the middle of the night, Debbie thought she heard Allan in the kitchen, opening a cabinet door. At least, she hoped it was just him. She turned on her lamp, grabbed her Glock, and headed down the hallway. She saw the guest bedroom door was open, no sign of Allan, and she sighed a little with relief. He must have just needed something from the kitchen.
She heard the water dispenser in the fridge door running. “Hey, just me,” she announced as she walked toward the kitchen.
“Got thirsty. Pizza always does that to me,” he apologized. He looked so damned sexy in a pair of black silk boxer briefs, she stared as if she was starved for a man. Which, when he looked like Allan—buff, tan, mostly naked—she had to admit she was. “Did I wake you?” he asked.
“Really light sleeper.” She realized she wasn’t wearing her robe now. In the chilly kitchen, her nipples had to be showing through her lightweight, clingy pajama top. “Just making sure it was you.”
Allan motioned to the kitchen counter behind him where he’d placed his Glock. “Better to be safe than sorry, in case anyone had tried to break in.”
“Agreed. Can you sleep now?” She glanced at the clock on her oven. Three thirty in the morning. Ugh. She’d gotten up at that time on occasion, but it wasn’t her preferred hour of waking.
He hesitated to say if he could get back to sleep.
“Feel free to…well, if you’re hungry…”
He smiled.
She felt her cheeks warm, and the heat just slid all the way down her body. “I don’t think I can. Get back to sleep, I mean.” She moved to the fridge, opened the door, and grabbed the milk jug. “Do you want some hot cocoa? That always helps me.”
“Sure. Thanks. What can I do?”
“Grab mugs up there?” She pointed to the cabinet.
He pulled out a couple of mugs while she warmed up the cocoa. He chuckled. She turned to see what was funny and nearly had a heart attack.
He was holding one hot-pink-and-white mug while reading it, the other sitting on the counter: Men should be like my curtains, easy to pull and well hung.
Her lips parted, and she flushed and turned away quickly before she burned the cocoa. Now what? Explain that a friend had given them to her when her last boyfriend and she had parted company? Or just ignore the fact that they were drinking out of those cups?
He brought the mugs over. “Anything else?”
“There’s a can of whipped cream in the fridge, if you want some.”
“Real cream,” he said, eyeing the can. “Looks good.” He gave it to her and lifted the mugs.
She shook the can and pointed it at the right mug and pushed the nozzle. The cream dripped and fizzled. Not to be thwarted, she shook the can again, hoping it wasn’t defective. And then the whipped cream swirled around with perfect ridges in a twirl with a cute, little pointy peak. Perfect.
Then she turned to the other mug, shook the can again, and pushed the nozzle. It was working great until halfway through her little mountain of whipped cream twirling to perfection, when the nozzle malfunctioned again and spewed whipped cream everywhere.
In horror, she stared at the white cream that had splattered all over Allan’s chest and dotted his boxer briefs. Her mouth agape, she glanced up at him.
His eyes sparkled with mirth and he laughed.
“Oh, oh, let me get something to wipe it up,” she said belatedly, and she set the can of whipped cream on the counter.
She grabbed some paper towels and dampened them, then rushed back to wipe the mess up. Allan was still holding both hot-pink mugs of cocoa. She had every intention of taking one and letting him clean himself, but he just moved his arms apart, as if to say she had made the mess, so she could wash it up.
She thought she was going to die. Yes, he was totally hot. And yes, she’d fantasized about making love to him—since they were both unattached and she truly liked him. But in her wildest dreams she would never have imagined making him cocoa in the middle of the night while he stood in sexy silk boxer briefs, nice and formfitting, and then proceeding to splatter him with whipped cream. All over his tanned chest and those black briefs.
She quickly wiped his chest down and glanced at his briefs. His erection was straining against the black fabric, and no way was she going there.
“Here, let me,” she said, and hastily took one of the mugs from him while handing off the wet paper towels.
He was still smiling, the rogue, as he wiped off his briefs.
“Should we sit down to drink these?” That way her gaze wouldn’t keep drifting lower. “I’m so sorry. I should have known that might happen.”
He just laughed and leaned against her kitchen counter and drank his cocoa. “This is really good. Thanks for thinking of it. The whipped cream adds that special touch.”