The Bride and the Bargain. Allison Leigh

weren’t supposed to smell as good as he did.

      “Are you on your way to work?” she asked, striving for a calm tone.

      “I have some meetings later on.” He slid the molded plastic lid from the top of his cup and lifted it, heedless of the steam. His eyes narrowed a little as he took a steady sip, which only seemed to make their blue-green color more pronounced between his black, spiky lashes.

      “I, um, I should have waited until you got here to order. I just know what the lines are like, here. Pretty crazy sometimes. But you might have preferred something other than regular coffee.”

      His lips twisted slightly. “Like one of those?” He nodded toward a bearded guy departing with a cup overflowing with whipped topping. “I’m more of a purist.” He set down his cup and took the enormous muffin she held out for him, looking slightly surprised as he broke it open. “Cranberry?”

      She nodded, tearing her own muffin in half, then quarters. “It’s a nice change from blueberry or bran.” And she’d automatically ordered it, never thinking about the fact that she’d learned of his penchant for the things in a sound bite he’d given during a breast cancer run.

      Just tell him, Amelia. Get it all out, so the threatening can begin.

      She pulled off the cover of her own coffee and took too hasty a sip. She gasped as the heat singed her tongue and she exhaled. “Oh. Wow. I ought to know better.”

      He made a soft sound, was gone from the table and back again with a cup of water before she’d stopped blinking back the tears that stung her eyes. “Here.” He folded her fingers around the cup.

      She wanted to stick her tongue out and let it soak in the cool water, but since she was no longer three years old, that hardly seemed appropriate.

      She drank slowly, letting the stinging in her tongue abate as she eyed him across the table. How could a man be as solicitous as he’d seemed to be—not just now, but when he’d nearly run over her—and be so callous where his own child was concerned?

      She finally lowered the cup. “You probably think I’m accident prone or something.”

      He grinned, looking suddenly younger and even more approachable, and the sight made her catch her breath just as surely as the hot coffee had. “Maybe I like rescuing you,” he drawled.

      She smiled weakly. Picked at her muffin, doing more spreading of crumbs than anything.

      “Not that you let me do much in the way of rescuing,” he went on. He caught one of her hands in his, startling her, and made a deep sound low in his throat as he turned her palm upward, gently spreading her fingers flat. He touched the scrapes that had begun healing over. “Such soft skin to be collecting scrapes.” He didn’t release her hand as his gaze lifted to hers. “And your knees? Probably still sore, I’ll bet.”

      She curled her fingers, as if to protect her palms from the warmth of his hand on hers, but only succeeded in folding them over his.

      As if they were holding hands.

      She yanked her hand away, tucking it in her lap. She cleared her throat. She’d always believed that running really wasn’t her particular cup of tea. She was more a swimming kind of person. But the activity had been growing on her. “I’ll admit that I haven’t been out running just yet.”

      “I can believe that.” He picked up the remaining portion of his muffin and polished off half of it in a single bite. “Do I make you nervous, Amelia?” His voice was low. Surprisingly gentle.

      She flushed. “Of course not.”

      “You’re doing more shredding than eating of that muffin.”

      There was no denying the truth of that particular observation. She’d spread crumbs well beyond the borders of the napkin that she’d opened out like a plate.

      She delicately brushed her fingertips together, giving up the pretense of eating. “I’m not as hungry as I thought I’d be. Would you, um, like another muffin?” The man easily topped six feet, and though he had a lean body, his shoulders were still massively wide.

      He didn’t look away from her. “I’m good, thanks.”

      Good?

      Anxiety oozed through her bloodstream.

      Now, Amelia. Tell him, now.

      She could feel perspiration sprouting from her temples. Words jammed beneath her lips.

      “What kind of work do you do, Amelia?” His deep voice was still easy. Probably meant to be soothing. He reached across the table for the portion of muffin she hadn’t mutilated. “Do you mind?”

      “I know who you are,” she blurted.

      He merely plucked the muffin from her napkin and began peeling off the paper wrapping still stuck to the side of it. “What about family? Other than your sister and her kids, I mean. Parents?”

      Feeling utterly ineffectual in the face of his nonreaction, she sat there, staring at him. “Mr.—”

      “Matt,” he supplied smoothly. “Remember?”

      Her lips tightened. He polished off the muffin. Her muffin. Even if she hadn’t been eating it.

      Oblivious to her squirming discomfort, or uncaring about it, he continued in that smooth, deep voice. “I don’t have any sisters. Just brothers. Half brothers, to be accurate. I have an honorary aunt with four daughters. Probably around your age. They’re the closest thing to cousins that I’ve got.”