So was being this close to her. In this light, her eyes were an almost depthless sky blue.
The llama kick must have dislodged something in his brain. He had never given a woman’s eye color more than a passing thought.
They were looking at each other. Measuring each other. Gazes locked. Breath synced. He studied every inch of her face for the reason for his interest. Was it the smattering of freckles across her nose? The dimple in her chin? That mouth of hers?
Or was it the way she looked at him, really looked at him? As if she were peeling back the layers of responsible accountant down into areas that hadn’t seen the light in years.
It was terrifying. Annoying. Exhilarating. And for some reason, the endless morning didn’t feel quite so cold anymore.
With a heroic effort, he dragged his attention back to the task at hand. But he let his fingers linger longer than necessary on the tape as he smoothed it over the gauze.
“You’re an interesting guy, Ryan. Where’d you get so good at first aid?”
He couldn’t tell if it was his imagination or not that was making her sound a little breathy. Was it possible she was as affected by the proximity as he was? Of course not. Women didn’t get breathless over the responsible, good-ish guy. He was the smart choice, not the “swept off her feet, love defies all logic” pick.
He was too grouchy. Worse, he worshipped organization, planning, efficiency. None of those ranked on the romance meter with women or led to the aforementioned sweeping of feet.
“I was nominated emergency director for my floor in the office,” he told her. “We have—had—three floors in a building downtown. Each floor has a director trained to take charge in the event of an emergency.”
“You’re so responsible,” she said with that bright smile that made it impossible for him to look away from her mouth.
“I can be irresponsible if I want to be,” he insisted.
That was probably a lie. He always paid his property taxes within twenty-four hours of receiving the notice. He kept an up-to-date pantry inventory that made grocery shopping for the eight meals he regularly rotated through on his menu a breeze. Monday was dry cleaning drop-off day because it was cheaper than Fridays. Thursdays, he ran his robot vacuum cleaner. Saturday was leg day at the gym so his co-workers wouldn’t see him limping around the office the next day.
Sure, he’d never forget a birthday or an anniversary. But he also wasn’t the bad boy who would push a woman up against a wall to kiss her without being 100 percent certain that’s what she wanted first.
Great. He was boring himself again.
Not that he was trying to impress the wounded Sammy. It wasn’t like he had a reason to. He wasn’t going to be here long enough to start a relationship or even some bizarre, short-term friendship.
“I’m sure you can,” she said, patting his arm.
Patronizing, smug, pretty pain in his ass.
“Dr. Sammy! Ryan!”
They both looked up as Charisma trotted down the driveway toward them. “You forgot your biscotti!”
“I forgot? Silly me. Thanks,” Sammy said with forced brightness as she accepted the folded bakery box. Something in those guileless blue eyes told Ryan she had definitely not forgotten.
“I packed an extra box for you, Ryan. Consider it an apology for the spitting and the kicking and a thank you for the recommendations on llama insurance,” she said, whipping a two-foot-long section of dark hair over her shoulder. He wondered if she noticed that it wrapped around the mailbox post behind her.
“It’s not necessary. Happens all the time,” he said.
Sammy snorted, then covered it with a cough.
“I insist!” Charisma said, shoving the second flimsy cardboard closer to his nostrils. To prevent her from inserting the biscotti directly into his nasal cavity, he accepted the box.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You are so welcome. And Sammy, don’t forget. I’d like a wreath with pine cones, jingle bells, and fake snow.”
“You got it,” Sammy said, sounding even more strained.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to my baking. Ta-ta!”
“Toodle-oo,” Ryan said.
Sammy elbowed him.
“Ow. What?” He rubbed his ribs
“Toodle-oo? Seriously?”
“I was speaking her language.”
With an eye roll, she swung her legs into the vehicle.
“Where to next?” he asked, sliding the seat back a good eight inches and opening his box of biscotti.
She consulted her watch. “We should be able to catch Rainbow at Villa Harvest restaurant. And I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” she warned as he plucked a chocolate-covered chunk out of the box.
“Why?” he asked.
“Charisma is gluten-free and vegan. And a terrible baker.”
“I’m starving. How bad could it be?” he scoffed.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He bit into the baked good and had immediate regrets. “Dear God. Is that concrete? Did she bake concrete?” It was gritty and crunchy. And the brown stuff was most definitely not chocolate. “Why does the chocolate taste so bad?”
“She makes it with black beans, prunes, and cocoa powder,” Sammy said, grinning.
“This is worse than the hangover. I might actually vomit in your car,” he said.
She dove for the glove box and pulled out the last of the napkins. “Here.”
He spit out the masticated disaster, then scraped his tongue clean. “No one is that bad at baking. That kind of horror has to be on purpose. I think I taste rubber cement and construction paper. It’s an act of aggression.”
She was laughing at him. “I warned you.”
“I thought it was hyperbole. Like ‘watch out for Tina, she’ll bore you to death with stories about her guinea pigs.’ No one actually dies from a conversation with Tina. But this poison masquerading as biscotti should come with an FDA warning label.”
She held up his coffee, looking amused. “Drink and try to forget it. And maybe next time you’ll listen to me.”
He washed down the remaining grittiness with a hit of coffee. “Please tell me Villa Harvest is a restaurant. I need something else in my mouth to block out the memory of that.”
“It is. Since you were such a good sport about the spitting and kicking, I’ll buy.”
She directed him through town. Block after block of tidy houses with festive exteriors. He was getting a wrist cramp from acknowledging all the bundled-up pedestrians who insisted on waving at him like they knew him. It was a weird town full of weird people. But the friendly, kooky kind of weird. Not the starting-a-militia-in-the-backyard kind of weird.
Sammy was looking at him again like she was considering something. He wondered if she was going to ask him for tax advice.
“You’re definitely leaving soon, right?” she said, biting her bottom lip.
“First chance I get.”
“And you won’t be back?”
“Nothing could drag me back to this holiday hellmouth,” he promised.
“Interesting,” she mused. “I imagine losing a job like that can do a number on a guy’s stress level.”
“What are you getting at?” he asked with suspicion.