Page 77 of Just Like Home

“Can I come in for a minute?” He looked almost pained to ask.

“Is something wrong?”

Cole met her eyes. “It’ll only take a minute.”

She held his gaze forone-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, then had to look away. The space between them sizzled in those two seconds, and it scared her. And he wanted to come in? Into a small space where it would just be the two of them?

How was she supposed to manage close proximity with Cole Turner without 1. Becoming the color of a summer-ripe tomato or 2. Fumbling all over herself in an effort to not look foolish, which she was bound to do?

Apparently, when it came to men, she had an awkward side. At least when it came to Cole. Her partner, Jameson, had been fine—but he was married. No chance of romantic feelings clouding her vision.

“Charlotte?”

She looked at him. Her vision was cloudy.

She’d been staring at him for far longer than was socially acceptable. She pushed the screen door open and moved out of the way so his much-larger-than-hers body could pass through, and as he did she stupidly inhaled the scent of him. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected him to smell like. Maybe the inside of his truck? The turf on the football field? Dirt from working in the yard of that adorable cottage he lived in on the other side of town?

But he didn’t smell like any of those things. And he didn’t smell like any of the men who’d been her dance partners over the years. He smelled distinctly masculine, but subtly so. Like he’d washed his body that morning and then not given his scent an ounce of thought for the rest of the day. Unfussy. Delicious.

She closed the door and turned to face him. The entryway suddenly shrunk in size, like a room in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory.

He looked around. “It’s dark.”

“Oh.” She moved into the living room and flipped the light on. “I was just starting dinner, so I was in the kitchen.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner.”

“It’s fine.”

It’s not like I had actual plans.

“Isn’t it kind of late to be eating?”

“Yes.”

He raised an eyebrow, as if he expected more of an explanation, but she didn’t want to explain her eating habits to him. She didn’t really want to explain anything to him. She wanted to hold a grudge against him, but that was considerably more difficult when he was looking at herlike that.

“Actually, now that I think about it, I haven’t eaten yet either.” He looked away.

What now? Was she supposed to offer him some of the plain chicken and broccoli she was about to eat?

“I would offer to feed you, but I’m a terrible cook,” she said.

He frowned. “I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

She angled her gaze in his direction. “Why?”

He lifted one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug, as if he’d made the comment without thinking.

“Are you here for a reason or . . . ?” Her nerves were distracting her as she mentally tried to sort out what it was that was causing them. Him or the anticipation of what he might say? Had the boys on the team changed their minds? What else could they possibly have to discuss?

“Kind of,” he said. “Want me to make you dinner?”

Her eyes shot to his. “What?”

“You said you’re not a good cook.”

“I’m not.”

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