Only here could she let down the defenses. She could safely indulge her passion for cooking, love of reading and flair for color.
She desperately needed that in the aftermath of her confusing response to her boss. Sloan was flirty, no doubt about it, but she’d always held herself to a higher standard. To think a few smiles, some genuine listening and one hot touch could turn her sensible head made her very angry—with herself.
The first bite of paella ignited a burn on her tongue that spread like flash fire up the walls of her mouth to the roof and inner edge of her lips. Yummy, but she suspected her turbulent thoughts had made her heavy-handed with the spices.
Ziara jumped at the jangle of the doorbell. She rarely had visitors—no family, no close friends. It was only five, so it was still fairly light out. Daylight savings time wouldn’t hit for another month. Maybe it was a salesman or one of the neighbors’ kids fund-raising for school. She sighed.
Traversing the short hallway linking the kitchen with the living room, Ziara paused to glance through the small window that ran down the side of the door. She wasn’t above pretending she wasn’t home.
The silhouette on the other side didn’t quite register at first except to look vaguely familiar. Then, in an instant, it felt as if the heat from the paella exploded at the base of her neck and spread along her skull. Surely that wasn’t Sloan so casually posed in the shade of her front porch?
She jerked back, suddenly vulnerable in her cotton yoga pants and old T-shirt, so thin it offered little to no coverage.
Cringing when the doorbell rang again, she looked up to find Sloan blocking the view from the window. Well, he knew she was here. Good manners insisted she open the door and see what he wanted. Muttering under her breath, she decided she now had a very personal reason for being irritated.
Grasping the cool metal of the knob, she pulled the door open just enough to see his handsome face.
“Sloan,” she said, her voice more a question than an acknowledgment. She didn’t issue an invitation, but apparently he didn’t need one. Placing his palm flat on the door, he pushed inside, walking by her as if coming in was his right. She stood dumbfounded for a moment, then closed the door and leaned back against it, her arms crossed beneath breasts that tingled in his presence—without her permission.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Her tone implied that seeing him was as far from a pleasure as she could get. She’d been well on the road to relaxation, but now her back was military straight and the muscles on each side of her neck tightened in protest. Even worse, she couldn’t decide if it was because she didn’t want him here...or because she did.
“Hi.” He flashed his usual confident smile.
Up went her brow. He studied her expression with interest before his gaze moved to his surroundings.
A sense of invasion rose from the pit of her stomach, overriding the awareness that always seemed to come with his presence. She shifted uneasily as he walked around the room, gliding a finger along her favorite fleece throw and pausing to examine the exotic lines of the dancer in the picture over the mantel.
“Sloan,” she said when the tension ratcheted up to an unbearable high, “what are you doing here?”
He faced her, his calm expression mocking the tremble that had slipped into her voice.
“I’ll tell you,” he said, “if you give me a plate of whatever smells so good. Suddenly I’m very hungry.”
No, her mind screamed. She didn’t want his presence lingering in her home, but short of pushing him back out the door, she had no idea how to refuse.
Sucking in a deep breath, she led the way back to the kitchen, ultraconscious as she passed him of the air grazing her bare arms and the gentle slap of her feet on the uncarpeted floors.
Crossing to the cabinet, she decided she might as well comply and find out what was going on. With efficient movements, she fixed him a plate and drink before settling him at the opposite end of the table from her. She ignored the smirk on his face as she returned to her seat.
He lifted his fork, then sniffed appreciatively before meeting her eyes.
“I know the perfect designer.”
“I wasn’t aware we needed one. We already have two.” His knowing look had her admitting, “Okay, we have at least one willing to help.”
“But I’ve figured out the one person who can bring my vision to life.”
His epiphany obviously accounted for the change in his mood, but not his presence—his most unwanted presence—here. “I’m glad. Couldn’t this have waited until Monday?”
He shook his head, then hefted a heaping forkful of rice and spicy meat to his mouth. It had to be a sin to watch those sculpted lips close around anything, even something as innocent as a fork.