You ran. I was far from finished, believe me.
The trembling was beginning to work its way down her legs. Her knees felt fluid. She so desperately wanted to tell him she was finished, that she'd had enough of his stupid dance and magnificent but uncaring body. But she'd couldn't. She was snared by the very net she'd thrown, and she had no choice in this now.
But she had a horrible suspicion she'd better find Savannah's attacker fast, before this man destroyed her.
Tell me what you want. Aloud, she added, "Anything else with that, sir?"
His smile was slow and sexy and sizzled heat across every nerve ending. "Oh yes," he said softly. "But we'll discuss that a little later." When the diner isn't as full.
She flipped closed her notebook and all but ran back to the counter. Where she stood, back to him, taking deep breaths as she tried to control the shaking. She couldn't go into the kitchen like this. Her dad would know something was wrong and be out here in an instant searching for the troublemaker.
Ari came around the counter. "He has that sort of effect on me, too," she said, voice sympathetic, "And I haven't been anywhere near him."
"I'll be fine once I catch by breath," she said. Which certainly wasn't a lie.
"So what does he smell like?"
"Like a warm whisky on a cold night," she said without thinking.
Ari chuckled softly. "You have got the hots for him real bad, don't you? Shame your old man is next door. You could've dragged our sexy stranger into the storeroom and had a quick dance with him."
That was certainly a possibility anyway, if the heated promise in his eyes was anything to go by.
"Of course, you'd have to dust yourself off with bicarb afterward," Ari continued blithely.
Neva blinked and looked at her. "What?"
"Bicarb absorbs smells, does it not?"
"Yeah — so?"
"So, you don't want your straightlaced parents knowing you've actually gone out and enjoyed yourself, do you?" She winked saucily. "Works a treat, believe me. Been doing it for years."
Neva laughed softly and pushed away from the counter. "You're incorrigible."
"But a hell of a lot more satisfied than you'll ever be if you don't start pulling your act into the twenty-first century." She waved a hand toward the kitchen. "Your dad may be the head of the Future's Committee, but both your parents are still acting like they were brought up in the fifteenth century."
"Okay for you to say," she said dryly. "You don't have to live with their fifteenth century ideals."
"Neither do you. You moved out two years ago, remember?"
Moving out was easy. Ignoring the twenty-six years spent under their roof, absorbing their influences and ideals, was not. She wasn't even sure she wanted to ignore them.
"I'm trying, Ari, believe me."
"Not hard enough if you let that delicious stranger slip through your fingers."
She forced a smile and walked into the kitchen, handing her dad Duncan's order. When it was ready eight minutes later, she grabbed the plate and his coffee, took a deep breath, and walked over.
"Here you go, sir," she said, placing his plate in front of him.
"Thank you." He let his hand slide across hers as he reached for his cutlery.
It felt like flame caressing her skin, and she jumped. The coffee cup she still held tumbled sideways, splashing heated brown liquid all over the table and him.
"Oh God, I'm sorry," she said, horrified. "Are you all right? Are you burned?"
His raised eyebrow suggested he didn't believe the sincerity of her words. "No. Just clean up the table, and me, and it'll be fine."