For Seven Nights Only - Sarah Ballance Page 0,2
his arms. “I’d fight.”
An edge of humor glimmered in her eyes. “Maybe he figured as much and didn’t want his face smashed in over a woman he’d never met.”
“Or maybe he’s a loser.”
She flailed her arms like she was shooing pigeons. Or falling into a manhole. So much for humor. “He’s not the loser. I am.”
Sawyer took a step back as she steamrolled toward him. He didn’t relax when she paused to grab the peas off the stove—he figured he was about to wear them—but all he got was a look that straddled the line between anger and exasperation as she spun and dropped the pan on the table. He cringed at the noise, and again at what the hot metal might do to the wood surface. “I’m pretty sure you’re not a loser,” he said mildly. “Not the way that dress is showing off your curves.”
Her jaw dropped, and her gaze followed, straight to her chest.
“Though you’re wearing a granny bra. That could go,” he offered helpfully.
Without a word, she spun and left the room. This time he did edge for the door. He made contact with the knob just as a yipping brown blur came tearing toward him, claws screeching a manic staccato against the flooring. When the blur slowed, he found himself staring at a bug-eyed shrimp of a dog who wagged his tail so hard his whole hind end slung back and forth.
“Marmaduke!”
Sawyer looked up to find Kel-whoever in a pair of sweats and a top that looked like burlap. Was she actually wearing a feed bag? He thought better of asking. Her hair had been pulled into a messy ponytail, leaving a few stray tendrils to caress the column of her neck. “What the hell is a marmaduke?”
“My dog.” She glared as she dropped into a dining chair and scooped a hunk of potatoes onto one plate, then the other. Same with the burnt peas. That she found them edible enough to put on a plate gave him pause. He once again gave healthy consideration to making a run for it, but she was making two plates, and he was pretty sure one was for him. She confirmed as much when she asked him to stay. “You might as well eat. It’s the least I can do after you helped me out with the water situation. I’m Kelsie Reed, by the way.”
“Sawyer Chase,” he said, eyeing the steak. It had grill marks—impressive ones. He glanced around the kitchen, wondering how she’d managed them. “It was a selfish attempt to keep the ceiling in my apartment from caving in. And that meal clearly wasn’t for me, so—”
She let go of the plate, then dropped her head in her hands. “I can’t believe this happened again,” she moaned.
He had to work his jaw loose before he spoke. “This happened before?”
She looked up at him, utterly crushed. “I suck at dating, okay? That’s why I had a blind date to begin with. I accidentally spilled hot coffee on the last guy who took the time to talk to me, and he left, saying he had an ambulance to catch. And before that, I went on precisely one date and started talking about the salary gap between men and women, and he excused himself mid-meal and didn’t return. Please eat. I don’t want to throw this out.”
He hesitated for a nanosecond. Long enough for her face to fall, and while he knew he could leave, he wasn’t sure he could do so with a clean conscience. Besides, what was he going to do at home? Mop the floor. Well, yes, but he really wasn’t in a hurry to go downstairs and do that twice in one night. Besides, he’d feel guilty if he left her like this, so instead he joined her at the table. As he walked, he dragged the dog, who had chomped down on his pant leg. The mutt didn’t seem to notice. Neither did Kelsie.
He sat, eyed the plate in front of him, and tried to ignore the faint sniffling from her side of the table. He didn’t do emotions or relationships, and he avoided drama like the plague, yet somehow he’d ended up mired in a shitstorm that seemed to be comprised of all three. But with food. “Steak looks fantastic.”
The shrimp dog growled at the sound of his voice, then went to town on his pant legs once more, snarling and shaking its head. Sawyer nudged him with his foot, but the little