Run

Chapter Six

The bag's handle cut into my fingers. It wasn't that heavy. I was just holding it too tight. I shifted it to my other hand as I stood at the bottom of the stairs, staring up.

I was here to make dinner for Trevor.

It could be taken as so many things. Dinner between two strangers. A meal between lovers. Were we lovers? Did one night make us lovers if we were destined to repeat it again, and again, and again? If we were, I'd better have an orgasm.

The last time I'd done something like this, made dinner for someone, a male someone, was almost two years ago. But Scott had taken the other side, the side half the city had taken, and that had been the end of our cozy dinners for two.

I hadn't kept Jeff around long enough to get to the dinner making stage. How I'd known when I'd rolled into Saint Louis my time there would be up in a matter of months, I don't know, but I'd used it as a barricade around my heart.

With Trevor, there was no barricade. I hadn't thought I might need one until it was too late. And now I was here, standing at the base of the steps, staring up. About to make dinner for a one night stand who was no longer a one night stand.

I climbed the stairs, the bag smacking against my leg, chest tight with anticipation. My knock sounded hollow, like it was echoing into an empty room. Panic flared. Maybe he wasn't home. Maybe this was all a joke, or a dream, and I'd be standing on the landing in front of his door, a bag of groceries weighing me down.

The door swung open. His shaggy hair was damp and curling at the ends, jaw scruffy from days of not shaving. The ratty t-shirt he wore clung to his broad shoulders. I wanted to curl my fingers into it. Would it be soft and warm from him, smelling of detergent and his aftershave?

His grin was slow, spreading over his face until it lit it up. He gestured to the bag. "Need some help?" Instead of waiting for an answer, he took the bag from me and stepped aside. "C'mon in."

I could get used to his apartment all too easily. It was a standard apartment, clean white walls, living room, kitchen, bedroom, but it had a familiar feel. It felt like...home.

Or maybe he did.

Too much, McKenna.

"I hope omelets are okay." I should have said no tonight. My system hadn't recovered enough to entertain most solid foods. I should have stayed away. Built that wall. Kept him out. Because no man wanted to be the well that caught the overflow of feelings waiting to drown me.

He led me into the kitchen and set the bag on the counter. "Hangover food, huh?"

I burst out laughing. "Busted. It's pretty much the only thing that sounded good. I swear I have more culinary skills than glorified scrambled eggs."

He smiled and leaned against the counter, all lanky limbs and sexy mouth creases, blue eyes gleaming with amusement and interest. My already frazzled nerves went tight with anxiety as the intimacy of the situation rammed into me full force. I was going to fumble this. Badly.

My hands shook as I pulled the eggs from the bag. "Pepper and mushrooms okay?" I lined up the rest of the ingredients, a short row of food soldiers. Eggs. Milk. Bell pepper - red, because it was cheery. Mushrooms. On and on, until everything I'd need to make a complete breakfast stood on the counter.

"McKenna?"

His shirt was as soft as I'd imagined, rubbing against my arm. I wanted to tear it apart, feel it give, push it up and out of the way. "Yeah?" I hadn't meant to whisper. My voice just didn't want to work.