Page 44 of Red Hot Roaster

“Yeah, right,” Rafe finally spoke up. “The owners are leaving on a trip to celebrate their fortieth wedding anniversary, and I’m filling in as the coffee roaster and operations manager for at least two months.”

Thankfully, conversation resumed around the table. And I took a looong pull on my beer to celebrate that.

Rafe edged closer to me on the bench, if that were possible, and put his warm hand on my knee under the table. I shivered at his touch and got an answer to my second question of the night when he whispered in my ear, “Ready for me to walk you home?”

So we reallyweregoing to act on our attraction to each other. After yesterday—after sharing histories, setting expectations, sleeping-but-only-sleeping together. I supposed we weren’t hiding anything from anybody here if we left together, because…all adults—right?

I just hoped that, this time, I could truly separate the physical from the emotional.

Chapter 23

Rose

“Wait!” I demanded.

“Wait?” Rafe groaned.

“Yes, wait! Look over there,” I directed. “Don’t you think we need alittlemore privacy?”

No, we weren’t still at the Hair of the Dog. Nor were we sprinting down the sidewalk toward my house. We’d even made it past the front porch and into the entry hall before we dropped our jackets and started kissing.

No, now we were half-sitting, half-reclining on my velvety-cushiony couch—to be accurate, I was lying at one end with my head on a plush pillow, and Rafe was pressing his not-inconsiderable weight along my definitely flushed self—getting ready to reignite the kissing portion of the evening.

However, we had an audience. Two sets of amber eyes were gazing at us like we held all the answers to the universe—or more likely the keys to the treat safe.

Pirate and Princess had planted their fannies on the other side of the coffee table and were staring us down. No doubt, they expected their nightly walk and the accompanying array of treats.

Rafe looked over, and we groaned in unison—not the sexy kind, but the frustrated kind.

“Rose,” he ordered, pulling off me and standing up, “go upstairs and wait for me on your bed. I’ll take care of the dogs and stick them in my apartment for the evening. Donottake off any of your clothes,” he directed. “I get to do that.”

Bossy much? You’d think the guy had done this for a living. Oh, wait. He had.

I knew I didn’t have much time, so I jumped off the couch and hustled up to my bedroom. I had a couple of things to do before Rafe returned.

Rafe thundered up the stairs and down the hall, stopping abruptly outside the door.

After lighting the candles, I hadn’t been able to catch my breath. My first time in years, and my body had rebelled—face flushing, hands shaking, stomach flip-flopping,

In for a count of five, out for a count of five, in for a count of five…

This exercise had continued for a few minutes until Rafe arrived and got an eyeful of the room—and me.

I liked to prepare in advance—no surprise there! Thanks to all that thinking today, I’d stopped off at home before going to the pub in order to turn up the heat—in more ways than the obvious. Although, Ihadpunched up the thermostat in the upstairs hall—it gets chilly in rainy Portland.

I’d gathered candles of all shapes and sizes to scatter around my bedroom. Next, I’d set up my laptop to play my favorite Elvis love songs.

Finally, I’d tugged off the clothes I’d worn all day at the café, along with my comfortable—yet beyond boring—white bra and granny panties. I’d saved just the thing for this occasion, courtesy of my girl Lauren’s gift shopping spree. After tucking my curvy self into a black lace balconette bra and the matching cheeky panties, I’d thrown on a fresh T-shirt and jeans.

As a final touch before heading off to the pub, I’d left a pair of black pointed-toe stilettos (from the same spree) by the bed.

I’d figured I was ready for Rafe. And by ready, I meantready.

However, nothing prepared me for the way Rafe looked—and looked at me—when he paused in the doorway to my bedroom.

I’d followed his commands to the letter. I’d gone upstairs—check. I was sitting on the end of my bed—checkcheck. I didn’t take off my T-shirt or jeans—check, check annndcheck.

Could it be the fact that I’d exchanged my hot pink sneakers and socks for black five-inch-high stilettos? Or maybe it was the way I was lounging on the bed, leaning back on my elbows, crossing my legs and dangling one stiletto off one foot? Or even the shock of all those candles sizzling the room with their flames?

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