Blame It on the Bikini - By Natalie Anderson Page 0,26

moves from him, and only yeses and pleases circling in her head.

She couldn’t believe her madness. Her brain had been lost somewhere between here and the bar.

He stood and picked up the pages as they came out of the printer and put highlighters and sticky notes in front of her. She almost laughed. It seemed the guy was as much of a stationery addict as she was.

‘It’s all vital for doing an assignment.’ He winked. ‘I’m off to make you some coffee while you get started.’

He’d left the documents open on screen so she could cut and paste quotes as necessary. Hell, he’d even opened up a documents file, named for her, and saved the other cases he’d downloaded. She stared at them, not taking in a word, just waiting.

Five minutes later he put the steaming mug in front of her and stayed on the other side of the desk.

‘I’m turning in now. There’s more coffee in the machine in the kitchen, fruit in the bowl, chocolate on hand too. Stay as late as you like. Don’t go walking out there at some stupid hour of the morning.’

‘I can’t stay the whole night.’ There was just no way.

‘It’ll probably take you all night to get the assignment done anyway. No point in taking unnecessary risks.’ He walked back to the doorway in jeans and tee—she noticed his feet were now bare.

‘Thanks,’ she said rustily. ‘Really appreciate this.’ And was so disappointed when he disappeared down the hallway.

She stared at the screen. All this info was at her fingertips. All she had to do was read, assimilate, process, write. It wasn’t that hard. She’d done enough essays to know what her lecturers wanted and what it was she needed to get that extra half grade.

But the house was silent.

Acutely aware of his presence under the roof, she sat stupidly still, listening for sounds of him. Imagining going to find him—imagining sliding into that mountainous cloud of a bed and …

She’d pushed him away and it had worked. For him. She still wanted what she couldn’t have and with that she’d lost her ability to concentrate. That was a first. She glanced at the big printer on the table behind her. Half a tree’s worth of paper and twenty minutes later she was ready to leave.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked just as she’d tiptoed to the front door.

She whirled around. What was she doing? What was he doing standing there almost completely bare? Only a pair of boxer shorts preserved his modesty and even then they were that knit-cotton variety that clung rather than hung loose. And speaking of things being hung …

She burned. ‘I can’t work here.’ It was a pathetic whisper.

‘You’re sneaking out.’ He crossed his arms. It only emphasised his biceps. It was so unfair of him to have such a fit body.

‘I didn’t want to wake you.’

‘How are you planning on getting home?’

‘I can walk.’

‘It’s after two in the morning.’

‘I walk home from the bar all the time. I have a safety alarm. I walk along well-lit streets. I’m not stupid.’

His jaw clenched. ‘Take my car.’

Could he make it worse for her? ‘No, that’s okay. I’m fine walking.’

‘It’s not fine for anyone to walk home alone this time of night. Take my car.’

She sighed. ‘That’s very kind of you, but I can’t.’

‘You have a real issue accepting help, don’t you?’ he growled.

Possibly. Okay, yes, particularly from him. His whole ‘friendly’ act was confusing her hormones more. ‘I can’t drive,’ she admitted in a low voice. ‘I’ve never got my licence. I’ve never learned to drive.’

For a second his mouth hung open. ‘Everyone learns to drive. It’s a life skill. Didn’t your dad teach you?’

Her dad didn’t drive either. That was because the accident at the factory years ago had left him with a limp and unable to use his right arm. He’d been a sickness beneficiary ever since. Living in a house that was damp, in a hideous part of town that was getting rougher by the day. She was determined to get her parents out of there. She owed it to them. ‘You’re assuming we had a car,’ she said bluntly. They couldn’t afford many things most people would consider basic necessities, like a car and petrol or even their power bill most of the time.

‘Okay.’ He turned and strode back to his bedroom. ‘I’ll drive you.’

‘You don’t have to do that,’ she called after him, beyond frustrated and embarrassed and frankly miserable.

‘Yes, I do.’

‘I didn’t