That's Amore! - Janelle Denison [73]
If asked for her opinion, she gave it as carefully as possible. If not, she kept her mouth shut.
"No wonder my mother likes you," Luke said, breaking into a rueful smile.
Oh, he looked amazing when he smiled. So amazing she lost track of the short column of numbers she'd been mentally adding.
"Why?" she couldn't help asking.
"Well," he said, a twinkle visible in his brown eyes, "because she's a consummate matchmaker. With very available sons."
"The engagement is off?" she squeaked out, shocked into asking the question. Of course, she realized her mistake a half a second after the stupid words left her silly tongue.
He stared at her. Hard. "I meant my brothers. The twins."
"Oh, of course."
Candy apple red. The color of her first car. Her favorite lipstick. And now, her face.
Luke apparently noticed. He continued to stare, his gaze questioning as he studied her cheeks, her hair, her lips. Then finally, sounding almost confused, he asked, "Why did you assume it was me?"
She could tell him one of a number of truths. She could admit she found him incredibly attractive. Could tell him she'd been trying to convince herself she didn't like him when, in actuality, she probably liked him more than a nice woman who respected other women's boundaries should.
Or she could tell him it was a natural assumption, considering he was marrying a cast iron bitch.
Instead, she lied. "Oh, I didn't. I was joking."
Lame, Rachel. Very lame.
Finished with the receipts, she rubber-banded them together, stuck them in a manila envelope, and carried them to a shelf loaded with shoeboxes of varying size, shape and condition behind the counter. After checking the dates, she found this month's box, opened it, and put the receipts inside.
"Now, there's an effective filing system," Luke murmured, sounding amused.
She glanced over her shoulder. "Don't I know it. But only for one more day. We have a desk with built-in file drawers being delivered tomorrow and I'm going to get organized if it kills me." Then she looked around, unable to hide a sigh. "Which means I need to get to work. I have furniture to move around before it shows up, and I need to clear a big place on the back room floor to put things together."
She hadn't been hinting around for his help. She hadn't.
"Can I give you a hand?"
Drat. Okay, maybe she had. But only because she could use some help. Not because she, uh, wanted him to stay or anything. Any pair of hands would be useful.
Especially big, strong male ones, connected to thick, muscular arms that looked like they belonged on a lumberjack rather than an attorney.
Okay, bad thought. She obviously wanted him to stay for all the wrong reasons. Say no. Say no and get away from him now before you get in any deeper.
Once again, however, her tongue moved without any interference from her brain. "Thanks. That'd be great."
CHAPTER THREE
RACHEL REALLY had needed his help. Luke kept reminding himself of that over the next hour as they emptied boxes and folded them out of the way, rearranged an old bookcase and disassembled some shelves. Slowly but surely they made space in the tiny, crowded back room of the dress shop.
Tiny. Crowded. Dangerous.
"Whoops, sorry," she mumbled when she slipped on a scrap of lace, bumping against his side.
That was the dangerous part.
"It's okay," he said, biting the words out from between tightly clenched teeth.
Liar. In no way was it okay.
Because the enforced proximity had made the two of them brush against each other more than once. Each contact—though innocent—shocked him, until he remained on edge, expectant, waiting for the next brush of her hand, or slide of her shoulder against his. Or just the feel of her long, silky hair flitting across his skin when she tossed it back to get it out of her face.
It was the heat of the closed-in space, the unexpectedness of it, that was all. It had nothing to do with the sunniness of her smile, or the throaty warmth