cocked his head to the side and considered her. "And here I thought you knew by now that I'm never one to back down."
She didn't know him at all. Not in the way she was determined to. In the way any woman would need to know the man she intended to become her intended as soon as she convinced him that he intended the same.
What she'd never counted on, however, was the sudden fluttering of nerves interfering with the daffodils and causing her to second-guess her brilliant master plan to seduce him, knock him senseless, leaving him desperate for more.
She thought of career criminals and mobsters and the First Presbyterian Friday morning prayer circle.
No. No second-guessing. It was now or never. She put her foot down on all her doubts, fortified herself with another monstrous nerve-settling breath, and took a step toward him.
"It's hard to get to know a guy when he sends his friends for his lunch." One step closer.
"When he can't even be bothered to order his own turkey, avocado, sprouts and Dijon." Another step, and nearer still.
"Or when he comes at lunch rush, and a girl can't spare a minute to flirt properly."
Tripp pulled in a deep breath, blew it out with a shake of his head. "Oh, Glory. If you don't think what you've been doing is properly . . ."
"So you like?" she asked, tilting up her chin just the tiniest, flirtiest bit.
He growled deep in his chest. "I'd like it a whole lot better if you'd give improperly a try."
She grinned, laughed under her breath, pushed a hand back through her mop of black curls and decided she might be able to pull this off after all. "Thing is, Shaughnessey , for improperly I'm afraid I'm going to need a lot more help than you've been giving me."
His brow arched upward. He shifted his weight from one hip to the other. "That so?"
"Yeah. Definitely so."
She took her time closing the rest of the distance between them, not touching him, not quite yet, waiting for that, wanting to savor first contact. To press her lips to that dip in his collarbone and linger. To taste him. To breathe him in.
Her fingers itched to slip between the snaps of his pressed khaki shirt. Instead of following through, she glanced down and away from the pull of magic in his eyes. Her pink leather, wedged Mary Janes contrasted fiercely with his big bad, black motorcycle boots.
She was Red Riding Hood to his wolf. Little Miss Muffet to his spider. Wendy to his Peter Pan. He tempted her. He frightened her. She longed for him to sweep her away from the mundane and take her flying.
She was tired of making sandwiches and stuffing potatoes and inventorying supplies for reorder. Tired of having no social life except that arranged by her matchmaking parents who were determined she make a sensible match.
Sensible, schmensible . She wanted romance.
Again she sighed, allowed her gaze—now a slight frown— to climb up his long denim-clad legs to that place beneath his Adam's apple still tempting her so. "You dress like no engineering project consultant I know of."
"You know a lot of us engineering types, do you? To know what we should be wearing?" He uncrossed his arms, hooked his thumbs through two of his belt loops.
The move drew her attention the length of his torso, that long, strong, lean body that she ached to cuddle up to more than anything she'd wanted in a very long time. When had she grown so tired and so needy and so very enamored of this man?
"Obviously my education is lacking in the engineer's wardrobe department." This time she circled one fingertip around his topmost snap, there beneath that spot she was crazy to kiss. "You're welcome to enlighten me."
"Fieldwork," he said simply, as if he wasn't sure of his voice. "Boots and jeans when on-site. Suits and ties for the office."
"I see." She liked him in both, liked the urbane sophisticate with his debonair flare, that cool James Bond detachment, that hint of a smoldering fire.
But it was the clothes he wore today that got to her, that gave her
She didn't know him at all. Not in the way she was determined to. In the way any woman would need to know the man she intended to become her intended as soon as she convinced him that he intended the same.
What she'd never counted on, however, was the sudden fluttering of nerves interfering with the daffodils and causing her to second-guess her brilliant master plan to seduce him, knock him senseless, leaving him desperate for more.
She thought of career criminals and mobsters and the First Presbyterian Friday morning prayer circle.
No. No second-guessing. It was now or never. She put her foot down on all her doubts, fortified herself with another monstrous nerve-settling breath, and took a step toward him.
"It's hard to get to know a guy when he sends his friends for his lunch." One step closer.
"When he can't even be bothered to order his own turkey, avocado, sprouts and Dijon." Another step, and nearer still.
"Or when he comes at lunch rush, and a girl can't spare a minute to flirt properly."
Tripp pulled in a deep breath, blew it out with a shake of his head. "Oh, Glory. If you don't think what you've been doing is properly . . ."
"So you like?" she asked, tilting up her chin just the tiniest, flirtiest bit.
He growled deep in his chest. "I'd like it a whole lot better if you'd give improperly a try."
She grinned, laughed under her breath, pushed a hand back through her mop of black curls and decided she might be able to pull this off after all. "Thing is, Shaughnessey , for improperly I'm afraid I'm going to need a lot more help than you've been giving me."
His brow arched upward. He shifted his weight from one hip to the other. "That so?"
"Yeah. Definitely so."
She took her time closing the rest of the distance between them, not touching him, not quite yet, waiting for that, wanting to savor first contact. To press her lips to that dip in his collarbone and linger. To taste him. To breathe him in.
Her fingers itched to slip between the snaps of his pressed khaki shirt. Instead of following through, she glanced down and away from the pull of magic in his eyes. Her pink leather, wedged Mary Janes contrasted fiercely with his big bad, black motorcycle boots.
She was Red Riding Hood to his wolf. Little Miss Muffet to his spider. Wendy to his Peter Pan. He tempted her. He frightened her. She longed for him to sweep her away from the mundane and take her flying.
She was tired of making sandwiches and stuffing potatoes and inventorying supplies for reorder. Tired of having no social life except that arranged by her matchmaking parents who were determined she make a sensible match.
Sensible, schmensible . She wanted romance.
Again she sighed, allowed her gaze—now a slight frown— to climb up his long denim-clad legs to that place beneath his Adam's apple still tempting her so. "You dress like no engineering project consultant I know of."
"You know a lot of us engineering types, do you? To know what we should be wearing?" He uncrossed his arms, hooked his thumbs through two of his belt loops.
The move drew her attention the length of his torso, that long, strong, lean body that she ached to cuddle up to more than anything she'd wanted in a very long time. When had she grown so tired and so needy and so very enamored of this man?
"Obviously my education is lacking in the engineer's wardrobe department." This time she circled one fingertip around his topmost snap, there beneath that spot she was crazy to kiss. "You're welcome to enlighten me."
"Fieldwork," he said simply, as if he wasn't sure of his voice. "Boots and jeans when on-site. Suits and ties for the office."
"I see." She liked him in both, liked the urbane sophisticate with his debonair flare, that cool James Bond detachment, that hint of a smoldering fire.
But it was the clothes he wore today that got to her, that gave her
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