Anything for Her - By Janice Kay Johnson Page 0,30
know when.”
At the top she unlocked her door. With a sense of anticipation—don’t even think about her bedroom, that’s not why she invited you up—Nolan followed her inside.
It really was a small space. She hadn’t even tried to squeeze a sofa into the living area, which, come to think of it, suggested she didn’t often have more than one or two people over at a time. A couple of upholstered chairs, an end table between them, and a television crowded one corner. Otherwise, the quilting frame effectively filled the room.
Beyond it was a galley-style kitchen and the tiniest dining nook he’d ever seen. He wasn’t sure he could edge his bigger body around to the other side of the table—and it wasn’t a large table. The merest suggestion of a hall led to two half-closed doors—bedroom and bathroom, he presumed. From the kitchen he had a glimpse into the bedroom, where a red-and-white quilt covered a bed. The headboard was lacy and white—iron, maybe? His body tightened, and he concentrated on setting the grocery bags down on the counter without breaking anything.
He ended up leaning a hip against the laminate countertop and watching Allie put away the groceries. She did that, like she did everything else, as if it were a dance. Each turn was a twirl; if she’d worn a skirt instead of jeans, it would have swirled around her legs. No missteps. Her hands were as graceful as her body. No, there was nothing deliberate about it. That was how she moved. It was catlike, he decided, while most people were giraffes or elephants. Ponderous. Nobody had ever accused him of grace, that was for sure.
She came to a sudden stop, a jar of olive oil in her hand. “Why are you watching me that way?”
“Because I like watching you.” His voice came out rough. Polish it, he thought, don’t scare her. “You looked like you were dancing.”
“Dancing?” Her eyes widened with something surprising. Fear? No, it couldn’t possibly be. “All I’m doing is putting away groceries.”
“You must know that you move differently than most of us clods.” He was careful not to move. His posture stayed relaxed. “Have you ever had dance lessons?”
“Oh...yes.” She sounded breathless. “When I was little. Don’t all little girls imagine themselves as ballerinas?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Didn’t your sister?” Allie went on tiptoe and put away the olive oil in a cupboard above the stove. Her body formed an exquisite line. He could sculpt her.... But creative visions were shoved off-line by the sight of her creamy skin when the T-shirt rode up. His fingers tingled, craving the silky, warm sensation of enclosing her waist in his hands.
She gazed at him expectantly. He had to rewind to remember what she’d asked. His sister.
“Uh...no. Anna liked to play in the mud.” He knew his face relaxed. “She finger painted—made the most god-awful messes. Anything artsy.”
“Play-Doh?”
“Oh, yeah. She did have a horse-crazy phase. Not destined to go much of anywhere when you live in Chicago, but she collected these horse statues, drew horses, ran around the backyard neighing.”
“A lot of girls go through that phase, too,” Allie said with a laugh.
“Did you?”
“I was the exception. By that time I was way too focused on...” She came to a stop, and there was the expression he didn’t understand again. “Oh, other stuff. Not that I wasn’t thrilled when one of those horse-crazy girls invited me to her birthday party. We were all taken on a trail ride. The horses were fat and never bestirred themselves from a plod, but still. I’m sure we all imagined ourselves leaping fences in the Grand National.”
She was too focused on...what? She didn’t want to talk about whatever it was, that was obvious. Family problems? Maybe, he thought, but wasn’t convinced.
“Where did you grow up?” he asked casually. “I don’t think you’ve ever said.”
She became busy stowing canned goods in a lower cupboard, giving him a nice view of her from behind, which he properly appreciated despite his agenda.
“That’s because we moved a lot,” she said. “Which is maybe why, when I reached adulthood, I was determined to put down roots.”
“Where’d you stay the longest?”
He couldn’t see her face. She was reaching into another grocery bag. “Oh...Florida, I suppose. Near Tampa. Actually a little south. I wish I could tell you I learned to surf, but I was too young.”
“Did you tan?”
“Did I what?” She looked startled.
“Your skin is so white. I wondered if you can tan.”