She looked hotter with the strands sweaty, tousled, and pulled back in a clip.
It had been getting harder to resist the attraction. When she was banging away with that hammer, her clothes mussed and dirty, muttering mild Southern curses under her breath when something went wrong, Cal couldn’t deny he wanted her.
In fact, it was getting more difficult the more time they spent together.
Even now, when she was aggravating him, he kept gazing at that pink, lush mouth and wondered what she’d do if he shut her up by kissing her. Again. This time without stopping. Of course, it was impossible. She’d already dissed him, and pushing her would be sexual harassment and a whole bunch of mess. Still didn’t make the thought go away.
“Let’s rehash the ground rules, okay? I pick the materials and furnishing and accessories and hardware. You tell me if you can make it work.”
“Fine. The answer is yes. I can make the ugly green lamp work in the bathroom that will never be used.”
She seethed with frustration, her teeth snapping together. “See? Was that so hard?”
“Yes, this is painful. I’m doing you a favor. I’m bored. I hate this shit. Can you buy the ugly lamp, contact Tristan in the morning, and get me the hell out of here?”
Cal prepped for a female temper tantrum, but she switched gears. Suddenly she let out a laugh filled with such genuine joy, he couldn’t help but smile back. She was so damn pretty. Standing in the middle of the store with that atrocity in her hands, dressed in her flawless white clothes, with her perfect hair and nails, able to laugh at his grumbling.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m being kind of bitchy—we had a long day. I just wanted to get a jump start on some of the design because of our tight schedule.”
He relaxed. “Nah, I’m being whiny. Let’s go pay, and I’ll buy you a wine. Or a champagne. Or whatever you nice Southern girls drink.”
She looked interested. “A Chardonnay sounds perfect.”
Yep, just as he thought. Another white type of drink. Who was the real Morgan Raines? The cool, collected executive who controlled every aspect of her life, read literary classics, and was always color coordinated? The mussed-up, sharp-humored spitfire who swung a mean hammer? Or the sexy, half-naked woman who had accepted his dare and kissed him with everything she got?
He followed her to the cashier. Definitely the first. He had to stop thinking of her outside the business realm. She wasn’t his type. He liked women who kicked back, drank a beer, and didn’t care if their makeup got smudged in the making-out process. He didn’t like women who not only wore white but drank it.
And then he noticed her shoe.
The silvery chain thingy had broken off and trailed behind her. The white strap sadly dragged over the dirty tile and ruined her flawless appearance.
And just like that, Caleb decided he wanted to get Morgan Raines in his bed.
Something had changed.
Morgan sat at the Oyster Bank under a cheerful red umbrella and studied the man across from her with suspicion. The lamp was safely by her side—she’d bartered a bit and finally gotten a decent price. One moment he was all pissy and gorgeous, doing that alpha male thing because he didn’t want to be stuck shopping, and the next he was staring at her like she was Gettysburg and he was Robert E. Lee.
Morgan really, really hoped she didn’t lose this war.
Her skin prickled with awareness, so she kept up some inane chatter and drank her Chardonnay. The offer for a drink had seemed okay at the moment, but now there was so much tension in the air, she wished she’d declined. She should be back in her safe, boring hotel room and get a good night’s sleep. She needed to stay far, far away from men like Caleb Pierce and sour cream and onion potato chips.
They were so good at first. Then they turned real bad.
So, here they sat, Cal staring at her with all that yummy seething sexiness she’d only read about, and Morgan doing a fine imitation of Scarlett O’Hara before the war and heartbreak made her more interesting. Ah, the hell with it.
“Why are you looking at me all googly-eyed?” she asked.
He choked on his beer. Morgan remained patient as he gathered his composure and narrowed his gaze. “You know, every time I think I have you figured out, you surprise me.”
Normally his statement would be a high compliment, but she didn’t trust his intentions. “Maybe you don’t have to figure me out,” she said.
“Can’t help it. See, princess, you’ve got me intrigued.”
She crossed her legs and shook her foot. “And why do I care again?”
He laughed. “Never give an inch, do you? Gonna tell me you haven’t thought about that kiss?”
Oh, Lord. He’d really gone for it. Emotion rioted inside her, a crazy mixture of relief to have him voice the truth and anger because he voiced the truth. She’d been counting on his general dislike and touch of surliness to keep his distance. She’d bet her cool disregard for the whole scene would slam him in the male ego hard enough for him to forget the entire encounter. Now, after one damn lamp-shopping trip, he’d decided to eat the damn potato chips.
No. She refused to eat the chips. No regret for her. Things were perfect, and nothing was worth screwing it up.
Even one wild night with this man.
Morgan crossed her arms in front of her chest. She was going to have to play hard ball. Cool as a cucumber, but polite enough not to get him pissy. She kept her voice calm and even. “I wouldn’t be human if I told you I never thought about it. So I won’t lie. It was a good kiss. But I’m not going to sleep with you.”