Page 35 of Lone Star Country Protector
Dalton’s apartment was messier than he remembered. Or maybe he was just more embarrassed at bringing Blakely home to any mess when her home had been neat as a pin. He mumbled an apology as he moved to the patio to fire up the grill.
“Do you mind fixing those inside so you won’t be exposed?” Blakely asked as her gaze swept the twin building out the window and the parking lot in between.
“Okay,” he conceded. He had one of those fancy stoves with a grill top. It wasn’t as good as outdoor grilling, but she had a point. No matter how much of a long shot, someone might have figured out the two of them were together and identified him. It would take both of those for someone to get his address since he was certain no one had followed them from the courthouse.Better safe than sorry.His grandmother Lacey’s voice had a habit of popping up in situations like these. Thinking about her was too hard, so he stuffed the memory down deep.
“I’ll do the baked potatoes,” Blakely offered. “It’ll give my hands something to do.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “Let me know when you’re about twenty minutes out.” In the meantime, he could let the steaks rest after peppering them with Lawry’s Seasoned Salt.
“Will do,” she said as she preheated the oven.
Normally, a cold beer would sound good about now. But his mind needed to be clear. Being around Blakely was distraction enough. Every time he walked past her or needed to stand beside her, he breathed in her clean floral and citrus scent. Every time their skin grazed, electricity pulsed through him. Every time his gaze dropped to her lips, an ache formed deep in his chest.
Rather than torture himself by focusing on someone he could never have, he excused himself from the kitchen to straighten up.
Blakely’s cell buzzed in the next room. She grabbed it from her handbag and then checked the screen. The look that crossed her features before she dropped the phone into her purse again brought on questions. “Everything okay?”
“Yes,” she said without turning to face him. Was she hiding her expression or was he reading too much into the situation?
Dalton finished straightening up by tossing clean and dirty clothes into a laundry basket that he set on top of the washer in the hallway between the two bedrooms.
“Did you just move in?” Blakely asked as he joined her in the kitchen.
“I just signed a lease for another year,” he said.
“Oh,” she said as her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
“What gave you that impression?” he asked, doing his level best to keep a straight face. It was obvious to anyone who walked in, but he wanted to hear her version.
“I didn’t mean to make an assumption,” she said. Was she trying to spare his feelings? “But there’s not one picture hanging on the walls, so I just assumed.”
“Did anything else tip you off?” he asked, continuing with the blank-face routine to see how far he could push it.
“The packing box sitting next to the front door,” she said, looking like she was choosing her words carefully.
Dalton broke into a wide smile. “This is my second year living here, but I haven’t made the time to finish unpacking.” He chuckled as she made a face at him. “What? I wanted to give you enough rope to hang yourself because you seemed so worried that I might get offended.”
“Thanks for the save,” she quipped, but then she laughed too. And then they both laughed in a manner that far outweighed the joke.
Blakely pinched her side but couldn’t stop. “I really thought you might be doing your best here.”
Dalton couldn’t hold a serious face if he tried. “I might not have your decorating skills, but I do realize when a house hasn’t been unpacked yet. I’ve got eyes.”
“Really? Because for a minute, I thought you couldn’t see that walls need pictures or art, or something on them so they don’t look like dry-erase boards.” More laughter broke out. It was good to see Blakely with a smile on her face for a change. The situation wasn’t all that funny, but both needed a break in tension. Stress usually found an outlet in the form of tears or laughter. This time, Blakely was laughing so hard she cried, and he wasn’t far behind.
When the laughter finally died down, Blakely said, “Why isn’t there anything on the walls? Too busy?”
He shrugged. “The truth is that this place is a convenient location, but I can’t say that it’s ever felt like home.”
“Why’s that?” she asked. He resisted the urge to ask if she was sure about asking anything deemed too personal.
“I grew up on a ranch, so the land probably has something to do with it,” he said. “I’m not sure what else the problem is, other than to say it doesn’t feel like home.”
“The building is tall and modern,” she pointed out after careful thought. “What floor is this?”
“Seventeenth,” he supplied.
“It strikes me as odd that you’d live so high in the air when you’ve always been a feet-on-the-ground person,” she stated. The comment resonated. There was real insight in those words.
