The Gideon Affair

After quickly setting the table, it was time for him to have the stage—which he managed in that larger than life way he had that came so easily to him. Like a five-star celebrity chef hamming it up on camera, he took them through a meal that was as delicious as he was charming.

They ate and talked. Talked and ate. Drained a bottle of her favorite wine. Teased. Laughed. Joked around. It was perfection.

And why was it perfection? Because, at the end of the day, when all the superfluous noise and distractions were stripped away, they were friends. Good friends. This part of who they were was comfortable and familiar.

“Got room for dessert?”

His question brought Paige out of her thoughts. She glanced at the clock, noted that the sun had set on another glorious day, and sighed. Her phone had buzzed almost nonstop through di

Pushing back from the table, she rose and shook her head. “Not unless you plan to wheel me out of here in a barrel!”

He laughed easily. “Okay, but coffee on the deck and then a sober check before I let you get in a car.”

“Ooooh.” She giggled. “Maybe you could put on that cop uniform from Hands Up?”

The reference to one of his rom-com roles earned a groan and a mocking eye roll. “The uniform makes you hot, huh?”

“Ha! You wish …” She hooted.

Had her ribbing small talk stepped on his feelings? Maybe it had because he suddenly got serious.

“You’d be surprised what I wish, babe.”

Er, uh … oh, my. Edward had always called her ‘babe,’ but when he said it now, his emphasis on the casual word got her blood pumping.

Scooping up the pile of silverware they’d used, along with their empty wine glasses, she marched to the sink where he’d turned as they talked, leaning against the countertop.

“You know what they say about wishes.”

The loud clanging of the utensils as she tossed them into the farm sink sounded jarring in the current atmosphere.

“No, what do they say?” Amazingly, he really did sound miffed.

Paige eyeballed the snug white t-shirt covering his chest and wondered if it smelled like him. She bet it did.

Wouldn’t mind wearing that to bed.

Clearing her throat, she mirrored his posture; leaning against the counter with her arms crossed, she nudged him with her shoulder.

“Jeez, I have no idea!” She chuckled when he jolted at her side.

“Are you serious? You have no idea? Then why make the statement?”

Paige couldn’t help it—she laughed in his face when he turned on her, dropping his hands to his waist and stood there looking at her as if she was crazy. He mumbled something that she didn’t quite catch then stomped heavily to the coffeemaker.

“Say again?”

Snapping the lid shut on the small appliance, he pushed a couple of buttons and shot her a wary look.

“I said … your flirting leaves a lot to be desired.”

Her mouth formed an O, but the word hung silently in the air. He was more than a little bit right. Flirting wasn’t something she was good at; she hadn’t had much practice. Mostly, she tried not to look like a fool, finding it easier to make intelligent comments and not gush or giggle like a twelve-year-old.

It freaked her out a bit that he had called her on it, but she felt a secret elation that he cared at all.

With an awkwardness that left Paige feeling out of her comfort zone, she reacted with a jerking hesitation, blurting out, “You don’t need a costume to look hot, sweetie. That t-shirt works just fine for me.”

What followed was a short but horrifying lull of silence that seemed destined to end with her cringing in embarrassment. She fidgeted, pushing her hair behind an ear and doing a reflexive lip bite and throat clear.

In the blink of an eye, his frowny face transformed to delight. He started humming one of those Da-da-da-da circus tunes as he went through a dozen different muscle man poses, flexing his biceps and sucking in his abs.

Flirting? He wanted flirting? Okay. Why the hell not? Fa

“And you, Miss Turner, could tempt a bishop with those shorts.”

Her shorts? What was the matter with her shorts? She glanced at her reflection in the wall of windows.

“Oh. Do they make me look like I’m trying too hard?” Eek, what a thought, but that was all she had.

His answering snicker was all sorts of sexy. “Yeah, they do.”

Her face fell. Really? Dammit.

“Trying to make me hard, I mean.”

She looked at him so fiercely her face completely squinched as she tried to make sense of his words. Did he just say what she thought he said?

My god, she was cute as shit standing there staring at him, her face contorted with confusion. Did she truly have no idea of her effect on him? Sounds came from her mouth but never formed words. Mostly, she choked, sputtered, and grunted.

“Coffee’s ready,” he muttered when the stream of black liquid into the big mug stopped. “Grab the half and half, would you?”

Setting her filled mug to the side, he went through the process again to brew another cup. When he glanced at her, she was still standing there gaping at him.

“Babe, snap out of it. Creamer. Come on.”

“Oh, right,” she mumbled, hurrying to the fridge. He’d moved the carton of creamer to the bottom shelf to make room for last night’s takeout leftovers. When she bent over to grab it, he was treated to quite a view of her ass cheeks. His fantasy from earlier—the one where his mouth did a thorough tasting of those long legs—fired him up.

Like he needed any more temptation, sheesh.

Joining him at the coffee zone, he studied her in amused silence as she went about her java ritual.

First, a spoon went into her mouth with the stem hanging out making her look like a crazy one fang walrus. Apparently, to put a cold spoon into a hot beverage was nothing short of sacrilege. So was using a cold container of any kind. Didn’t matter if it was a fancy china teacup or a gargantuan mug—cold was a no-no, so he’d learned to fill her cup with hot water while the coffee brewed. Putting said mug into the microwave for a quick heat-up also fell somewhere between a minor faux pas and a major crime.

With the spoon warming in her mouth, she counted out six yellow packets of sweetener from a canister on the counter. For the mug she was using, it had to be six. Not five and not seven. Six.

Stacking them in a neat pile, she held the bundle by one end and smacked them against the counter five times. This action made all the powder gather in the bottom of the packets, making it easier to tear all six packets open in one rip.

He knew all these small details because he’d asked her about them once then thoughtfully listened when she’d gone into painstaking detail about her quirky ritual. She said knowing these things mattered in business. More specifically, any business with customers, she’d amended, because playing to the preferences of the folks interacting with your brand—whatever it was—gave you an advantage over the competition. People liked to think they mattered. That you noticed them. So he’d made it a point from then on to study all of Paige’s habits and quirks. As she studied his.

He watched as the sweetener went for a swim before the spoon finally joined in. With a quick flick of her wrist, she whirlpooled the black brew then dribbled in a slow stream of fresh cream. The secret to adding the refrigerated dairy product was watching the color—adding only enough to quickly cool the boil and to bring the proper shade.

Sometimes, she’d told him, if she didn’t stir the coffee first, she’d dump in a big glug of the white stuff then watch while clouds billowed in the blackness. Only Paige could turn making a cup of coffee into a poetic ballet.