Jill Shalvis - Head Over Heels

He wasn’t that guy. He’d committed himself to the obligations of duty and discipline. His job swallowed him whole, and that was just how it was. So he stood in the doorway of the dining room waiting for her to set down the food and leave.

Instead, she turned to him with a little smile that was disarmingly contagious. “You may not know this about me,” she said. “But I’m excellent with a paint brush.”

Oh, Christ. He was a goner.

Sawyer shook his head at Chloe. “I’m not going to ask you to help me paint.”

“Don’t ask. I’m offering.” She took a second, longer look around at his nearly empty living room, the completely empty dining room, the equally sparse kitchen.

He knew what she saw. She saw what he’d just been thinking himself…it was a house. Not a home. “You need to go before the paint fumes aggravate your asthma.”

She merely moved to open the windows and turn on his two ceiling fans.

“Is that enough?” he asked.

“For now. There’s good cross ventilation.” She picked the food back up and moved to the middle of the dining room floor and dropped to her knees.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice a telltale hoarse, causing her to glance at him, but he couldn’t help it, he’d just flashed to her making that same move in his shower.

“Making you a picnic.” She leaned over to pull food from the bags. “Come on.”

He didn’t budge, riveted by the way her skirt was riding up the backs of her thighs.

“If you don’t sit,” she said, not looking at him. “I’m going to eat all of this by myself. And trust me, I totally could. I’m starving.”

Sawyer sat. She handed him a plate loaded with two burgers and double fries, and then pulled a large bottle of wine from the depths of her huge purse.

“The big guns,” he said.

“No, that would have been vodka. But I wanted to relax you, not put you out of commission. Though you’re so freaking stoic all the time, it’s hard to tell if you need relaxing. Nothing seems to faze you.”

He let out a mirthless laugh. “You think nothing fazes me?”

She smiled a secret little smile. “Well, except when I’m naked. You were pretty fazed then.”

He shook his head.

“No?” she asked.

“Yes.” Fuck, yes. “But that’s not all that gets to me.”

“What else, then?”

“Seeing you suffocating,” he said. “That fazed the hell out of me.”

Her smile faded. “I know. I’ve been told that’s damn hard to watch. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He shook his head. “God. Don’t apologize for that.” He paused. “You and your sisters make up?”

“Oh. Yes.” Chloe shrugged. “Pretty much anyway. It was my fault. I spent all those years being wild, and then I hate when no one wants to depend on me.” She shook her head. “I’m working on that, but the problem is, people tend to assign you the role of the person you are at your worst, you know?”

Yeah. He knew. Exactly.

“Not much I can do about that,” she said with a philosophical shrug. “Except hopefully continue to prove them wrong.” She set the bottle between her thighs to steady it and went to work the corkscrew, also from the mysterious depths of her purse. When she bent over the bottle, her skirt rose up even more, giving him another quick flash of-yep-something that was definitely black silk beneath. The corkscrew slipped, and with a low breath of annoyance, Chloe ran her fingers up the neck of the bottle to reset its position.

“Keep doing that,” he said, mesmerized. “And the top will pop off on its own.”

She laughed and handed everything over to Sawyer. He removed the cork, and she took the bottle back, pouring him a glass.

He wasn’t much of a drinker, not anymore, and he’d already had the two beers, but she was looking at him with a soft smile. And then there was that sweater, still slipping off her creamy shoulder. Plus she smelled amazing, was wearing black silk under her clothes, and he was suddenly more than a little short on brain power.

They ate and drank in a comfortable silence. After a while, Chloe looked down at his empty plate with a smile. “Better?” she asked.

He’d inhaled everything. Finally full and definitely better, he nodded. “Thanks.”

“Oh, it’s not me.” She poured the last of the wine into his glass. “It’s the food. And the alcohol.”

He was pretty sure it was her, but he kept silent, shaking his head when she pulled a second bottle from her purse. “What else does that suitcase hold?” he asked in marvel.

“Everything.”

“Anything worthwhile? Like, say, a house painter?”

“I’m your new house painter.” She reached for the corkscrew to open up bottle number two.

He stopped her. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

She tilted her head and studied him. “Is it possible?” she asked, sounding intrigued.

“No.” But when she leaned forward, her sweater gaped and he discovered that the black slinky strap belonged to a black, slinky bra. Mouth suddenly dry, he downed the last of his wine, not surprised that he was feeling a nice little buzz.

“I really can paint, you know,” Chloe said. “If we keep the windows open, and I wear a mask.”

“No way.”

“No way?” she repeated in disbelief. “You don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t do, Sawyer.”

He sighed and swiped a hand over his face. This was his own fault for demanding instead of asking. He located one of the paper masks that the paint store had given him with his purchase.

It covered her mouth and nose, and when she got it into position, she looked at him. “I know you’re just concerned and not trying to be a domineering asshole,” she said benignly through the paper.

“Do you?” he asked, amused in spite of himself. She looked adorable.

And sexy.

“Yes. But I’m a big girl.”

And wasn’t that just the problem.

Her eyes crinkled so he knew she was smiling as they began painting.

“How’s your dad?” she asked.

He watched as she stretched up high as she could with her roller. “Ornery as hell,” he said, eyes locked on her bare legs.

“I hear they get that way with age.”

He had to laugh. “Then he’s always been old.”

“You have your moments, too, you know.”

That gave him pause. “Are you saying I’m like him?”

“I’m saying that sometimes genetics are annoying.”

She was still painting, paying him no special attention, allowing him to look his fill. He wondered if she was referring to Phoebe and the wanderlust lifestyle that had been forced on her, or if she blamed the father she’d never known for not sticking around.

She dipped her roller into the paint tray very carefully. “Sometimes I wonder what I got from my dad. If he was…difficult. You know, like me.”

Sawyer had liked Phoebe, he really had, but sometimes he wanted her to come back to life just so he could strangle her. How could she never have told Chloe a thing about her father, given her nothing of half of her own heritage-no knowledge, no memories, nothing?

Sawyer had never asked his father much about his own mother. It had hurt that she’d left him, and for a hell of a long time, he’d been positive that he’d been the reason she’d gone. But that was different. Chloe’s dad hadn’t been there from the get-go. “You’re not difficult,” he said, meaning it, but when she snorted with laughter, he had to smile. “Okay, maybe you’re a little difficult, but I like it.”

“You do not. No one likes difficult. Which is why I’m so hard to put up with.”

It took him a moment to answer because suddenly his throat burned like fire. “If I don’t get to tell you what to do, you don’t get to tell me how I feel,” he said, and watched her eyes crinkle at the corners as she smiled at her own words being tossed back in her face.

Then she scratched the bridge of her nose and left a smudge of paint there, and another just beneath her left eye. Uncharacteristically silent, she turned back to her wall.

They painted in silence for five full minutes.

“You think he’d like the way I turned out?” she asked her wall casually. Too casually. “You know, my father.”

God, she was killing him. “I think he’d be proud of you, of your giving nature and spirit, how you live your life. Everything.”

She glanced at him. “Including the way I jump in without thinking things through?”

“Proud,” he repeated firmly.

She stared at him, then nodded. “Thanks.” She nudged him with her hip when they both bent for the paint tray at the same time. “And I bet your dad’s proud of you too.”

It was Sawyer’s turn to snort.

“Deep down,” Chloe said, sounding sure.

Maybe deep, deep, deep down, but Sawyer kind of doubted it.

“At least he’s around,” Chloe said softly. “And he visits with you.” She shrugged. “So he’s a grumpy old fart. Life’s short, Sawyer. Sometimes you have to take what you can get and make it okay.”

With this deeply profound statement, Chloe bent over to load more paint onto her roller, pulled back her mask, and flashed him those black panties again, distracting him.

At some point, she put down her roller and went for that second bottle of wine. He doubted the alcohol was good for her asthma, but he’d be damned if he’d point that out. He’d drink the whole bottle himself first before pointing it out. “Before you open that, there’s beer in the fridge. I’m going to have one of those instead.”

She eyed him, a small mischievous smile tugging at her mouth. Had she seen through him? No telling with her. But she put down the bottle, leaving it unopened. “I’m a little bit of a lightweight anyway. Maybe I’ll share a beer with you.”