Turn Up the Heat (19 page)

Shane blinked, shadowy lashes playing against his skin. “I feel like an ass. It's just not something I like to talk about. With anybody.” His fingers tightened around hers, and he lifted their hands up so hers rested just under his lips. While the serious look he'd given her when she teased him earlier had been open and sexy, the expression he had on now told her not to pry. So he wasn't a concrete jungle kind of guy. Big deal.

She could live with it if he could.

“A wise old man once shared his sage wisdom with me, and I believe it applies here. What was it that he said . . . oh, right. No apologies.” The corners of Bellamy's mouth hinted upward in the slightest of smiles.

“I'm only twenty-nine, you know.”

Shane's bemused expression made her want to chuck any plans for dinner so she could have him instead, but she held her ground.

“And wise beyond your years,” she teased, enjoying the glower that was doing a poor excuse of covering his lopsided grin. She lifted her brow at him, smiling. “Now do my stomach a favor and head back up the main road toward Joe's Grocery, would you?” She didn't let go of his hand as he lowered it to the armrest between them, keeping her fingers twined around his.

God, they felt good there.

“Let me get this right. You want to go grocery shopping at seven o'clock on a Tuesday night?”

Bellamy's lips curved into a devilish smile. “If we can't go to dinner, then dinner is going to come to us instead.”

 

 

“Cart or basket?” Shane asked, surveying the front of Joe's Grocery.

Bellamy chewed her lip before caving in. “We'd better go with a cart. I need some stuff for my room back at the resort, too. You're the car guy, so you can drive.”

He pulled a cart from the row where they were lined up by the entrance. “So what'd you have in mind for dinner?”

“I'm not sure yet. I want to let the food talk to me.”

“You want to
what
?” Shane laughed.

Bellamy's face flushed, and she walked over to the first row of produce, lined up in baskets by the front window. “I want to get a feel for what's good, what I'm in the mood for. Sometimes I don't know until I see it. Like the other day when I was in here, the Brie and figs looked so good, I just couldn't say no.” She scanned the pears and navel oranges carefully, but gave them a reverent pass-by.

“So the food talks to you?” Shane creased his brow, trying not to crash the cart into anything as he watched her moving along. Damned if she wasn't just as captivating as the first time he'd seen her here.

“Well, not literally. I'm not crazy.” She stopped to give him a healthy nudge, then reached past him. A flicker of interest passed over her face, like a light on a dimmer being turned up to a soft glow. “But look. These are just so pretty.”

Bellamy's fingers brushed over a handful of deep red fruit, the look on her face shifting from honesty to pure, pared down beauty and back again. She scooped one up, cradling its weight in her palm. “See? The color is perfect. And here,” she murmured, reaching down to place the ruby-colored globe in his hand. “It just feels right. So no, this pomegranate isn't sprouting lips and starting casual conversation with me right here in the produce aisle, but it's speaking to me all the same.”

Shane knew, in a far-off, disembodied kind of way, that he should be saying something to Bellamy, making some kind of witty remark or flirty banter. At this point, even a grunt or nod would do the trick. But he couldn't.

He was too busy wondering how the hell he'd met a woman who looked at food—hell, at
anything
—the exact same way he thought about cars, and trying with all his might not to fall in love with her on the spot.

“Sorry. I'm sure that just sounds crazy to you.” She slid the pomegranate from his hand and gently put it in the cart, then turned toward the apples with a sheepish look that bordered on embarrassed.

“It doesn't sound crazy to me at all.” Oh, thank God. He had a voice box after all.

Her laugh stirred around in his chest. “Really? It sounds a little crazy to me, and I'm the one who said it. But it's really how I look at the whole thing, so . . .” She trailed off to fill a bag halfway with apples, placing them in the cart.

“That's how I knew I was meant to work on cars.” The words slipped out of him quietly, but they stopped Bellamy in her tracks.

“It is?” she asked, her eyes on him like emerald velvet over steel, both soft and unyielding.

The logical part of his brain, the one that had ruled everything about him until the minute he'd laid eyes on her four days ago, told him without hesitation to close his mouth. He shouldn't dive into any of this with her, because it was going to open up a can of don't-go-there that he'd jammed the lid over, one he swore would never get opened again.

But the words came out anyway.

“Just because I always knew I loved cars doesn't mean I always knew I'd be a mechanic. For a while, I wasn't. But I was never happy, not like I am now, because nothing else ever spoke to me the way cars do. They feel right under my hands, and the complexities that turn a lot of people around when they look under the hood just make sense to me.”

Shane registered her lips parting in surprise, but kept on regardless. “So while there are plenty of things I could do with my life, a bunch of things I'm good at, I had to pick the one that spoke to me. The one I just knew was a part of me. So no. That doesn't sound crazy to me at all. In fact, it makes perfect sense.”

They stood there in front of the baskets of apples for a long minute, just looking at each other. Bellamy's eyes never wavered from his, and even though his mind screamed with vulnerability, the only thing that passed between them was understanding. Finally, she gave a tiny nod and spoke.

“It does, doesn't it?”

And in that moment, Shane knew he was in over his head with Bellamy Blake.

“Whoa. You really weren't kidding when you said all you had was ketchup and a frying pan.” Bellamy took a step back and put her hands on her hips, surveying Shane's kitchen with a sinking heart. This wasn't going to be easy.

He gave her an apologetic grin. “Yes, but there's wine.” He bent down and rummaged through the bags at their feet until one hand shot up, victorious.

Bellamy lifted a brow. “Very nice, Sherlock. You got a corkscrew for that?”

“Oh, shit.”

Her laughter was automatic and felt so good it ached. “You mind if I help myself to the kitchen here? The sooner I get started, the sooner we can eat.” She gestured to the tiny space. The stove had to be circa 1960, but it was a sturdy son of a bitch, and all four burners looked functional. Come to think of it, she'd cooked on worse.

“I take it you want the frying pan and not the ketchup, but be my guest to either.” Shane reached into his back pocket to reveal a Swiss army knife, and started to open the bottle of sauvignon blanc that Bellamy had been thrilled to find at Joe's.

“Thanks.” She washed her hands at the sink, looking over her shoulder at Shane. “Your cabin is nice.” Her eyes swept over stacked log walls the color of honey and the woodstove in the far corner across from the kitchen. True to what he'd said earlier, a recliner that looked to be conservatively four hundred years old stood sentry in the middle of the room, with an end table and a small TV stand rounding out the view. It might not be the biggest or grandest thing going, but it was cozy as hell; perfect for its surroundings and definitely perfect for Shane.

“Bellamy, your room at the resort is nice. This bottle of wine”—he paused to free the cork from the bottle with a flick of his wrist, the muted pop serving as a soft punctuation mark to emphasize his point—“is nice. I don't think I'd put my cabin in the same category. But it keeps me dry and warm, so really, I can't complain.” His eyes gleamed over a half smile as he reached up to open one of the three cupboards in the kitchen.

“You really are a skip-the-pleasantries kind of guy, huh?” she said, rooting through a drawer for a knife.

“What gave it away?” Shane poured the wine into two juice glasses and handed one to her. “Sorry about the glasses. It's this or nothing.”

She held hers up and clinked it against his. “This is great, thanks. You want to make yourself useful? I could use a hand.” Bellamy was in her element, the ingredients already spinning around in her head, whispering about how they should be put together. She eyed the sweet potatoes and apples, mentally trying to work in how she wanted them to go with the pork chops still nestled in the bag. Thank God she'd grabbed fresh rosemary and some olive oil in case Shane hadn't been kidding about having the barest kitchen in town. Yeah, this would work out just fine. She looked up at Shane, realizing he hadn't answered her question, or even moved since she'd started scrubbing the potatoes at the sink. “What?” she asked. He had the funniest look on his face, and hell if she could place it. “Do you hate sweet potatoes or something?” Oh, shit. He'd seen her put them in the cart, but still. Maybe he just wanted to be polite or something. She should've asked.

“No, they're my favorite.”

“Oh. You just had a look on your face, that's all. Are you sure they're okay? I don't have to put them in.” Eh, that was only sort of true. The dish would be kind of weird without them, but she could figure something out.

“Are you always this comfortable when you cook?” Shane's expression shifted but didn't change all the way, fluctuating into something sensual as he hooked his thumb through the belt loop of his jeans and leaned into the counter, facing her.

Heat shot through Bellamy's body and pooled between her hips, reaching down into her core with fiery twinges she had no hope of ignoring. “I, um . . .”
Focus. Focus. Focusfocusfocusfocus on the food.
“Yes.”

Shane kept his eyes on hers as he moved so close she could feel the warmth rolling off of his body. He snaked an arm around her waist, and she drew in a sharp breath at his touch.

“You don't have any idea, do you?”

If she'd had any damned willpower to speak of, she'd have reminded him that she was supposed to be making dinner. But he was sliding her turtleneck away from her ear with fiery suggestion, sipping on the skin of her neck with such sweet little nibbles that her knees threatened to go on strike. Never mind what the rest of her wanted to do.

“Have any . . . oh, God, that feels really good,” Bellamy sighed, tilting her head to give him better access to her now-bare neck. Would it be bad form to just whip her shirt off in the kitchen? “Have any idea of what?”

“How happy you look around food, even in my shoe box of a kitchen.” He traced his tongue around the outer curve of her ear, following with the edge of his teeth.

“We're never going to eat,” she murmured in the world's weakest protest. Those pork chops had looked good, too.

“Oh yes we are,” Shane said, pulling back to give her a suggestive grin.

She couldn't help it. She broke out laughing. “Shane!”

“Okay, okay.” He held his hands up, laughing with her. “But you do, you know.” He took a step back from her, and she felt a pang of disappointment mixed in with the rush of anticipation of what she was in for later as he washed his hands and reached for the knife and the sweet potatoes.

“What, look happy around food?” She got to work taking the pork chops out so she could season them.

Shane nodded. “Everything about you changes a little when you look at it. How do you want me to cut these?” he asked, motioning to the counter.

“Chopped would be perfect. They're kind of a pain, so be careful.” Bellamy tilted her head at the pork chops and got to work.

He chuckled. “You say chopped like it means something other than ‘cut in half.' You want to be more specific for those of us who are culinarily challenged?”

The edges of Bellamy's lips curved into a smile. “Sorry. Pieces about this big, give or take.” She held up her fingers about two inches apart.

“Now we're talkin'.” He started to wash the sweet potatoes, laid back as ever next to her in the kitchen. “So, can I ask you a personal question?”

Bellamy thought of what they'd just been doing and fought off the urge to giggle. If Shane wanted to get personal, she was all for it. “Sure.”

“Why are you really afraid to go to culinary school?”

Her head snapped up. “I'm not.”

He slipped a dubious glance at her, but didn't argue. “I'm just asking because it's obvious, even to a gearhead like me, that you'd be great at it. It doesn't make any sense to skip out on what you're really made for unless you've got a damned good reason. Especially when it's right in front of you.”

Bellamy hedged, starting to chop the apples with the knife he passed her way. “I was thinking maybe I could go into management for a catering company or a restaurant or something,” she admitted. She'd done a casual Internet search after she'd gotten off the phone with the head of HR at the bank and found that she was pretty well qualified to do both of those things, although she'd need to really do her homework about the industry to make it work.

“Yeah, but that's only half the brass ring. Are you really going to be able to watch chefs do their job while you do yours in a power suit on the sidelines?”

“Ouch,” she said, frowning at him. “I'm not sure I like the whole skip-the-pleasantries thing when it comes to stuff like this.”

“Look, all I'm saying is that you've got this crossroads in front of you. What would it hurt to try culinary school?”

She opened her mouth to protest, but Shane cut her off with a smoldering quirk of his lips, putting a hand on her arm that sent a little thrill of contact all the way up to her shoulder. “And I'm not buying that line about how it might wreck it for you. You're not going to hate it, darlin'. That much is crystal clear.”

Bellamy wanted nothing more in that moment than to tell him that he'd known her for only four days, thank you very much. He couldn't possibly give her sound advice on something as big or impulsive as a sudden career change.

Except that, goddamn him and his sexy little smile, he saw right through her. And he was right.

“There's a little more to it than that.” She kept working on dinner, and the fact that she was in Shane's kitchen, making a casual meal just like she would at home, went a long way toward chilling her out. “I know it sounds stupid, because I'm twenty-seven, but what my parents think is kind of a big deal to me, and I don't think they'd approve.”

Shane's movements jerked to a halt, freezing him to the spot where he stood next to her. Well, who could blame him for thinking it was weird? Most adults didn't really worry about what their parents thought about their career, unless they were doing something deranged or illegal.

Bellamy bit her lip, then figured she'd opened the bag, so she might as well let the cat prance right on out. “My parents have owned their own realty business since I was a little girl. They started it from the ground up, just the two of them.” She prepared the food while she spoke, and Shane stepped out of her way, just giving her space to move and talk.

“So when other girls were dressing their Barbies in ball gowns, mine was bossing Ken around in board meetings. I always thought I'd be this powerful executive, because running a business looked so exciting and cool, and for my parents, it was. I don't mean that there weren't difficult times, because they both worked their fingers to the bone for what they built. But they love every second of it. And I know it'll disappoint them that I don't, so this is hard for me.”

A muscle ticked in Shane's jaw as he stood, stock still, next to her at the counter. Wow, she knew it wasn't light conversation, but he looked like someone just ran over his dog. She should've just kept her trap shut.

“In the end, you're the only one who can decide what's right for you. I just thought you should know how it looks from the outside, that's all,” he said, his voice tight.

Confusion tumbled in Bellamy's brain before finally, something clicked into place. His expression wasn't about her at all. “You feel like talking about it?”

Shane's eyes widened for a fraction of a second before narrowing to the food in front of them. “There isn't really anything to talk about.” He shrugged and took a sip of his wine. The tension that had masked his face just moments earlier was gone as if it had never existed, leaving Bellamy to wonder if she was projecting her anxiety out into the world and poor Shane had just gotten caught in her web of weird neuroses.

“Oh. Well, sorry for laying all of this on you. Like I said, I know it's kind of weird.” She reached deep into the bottom cupboard for a sheet pan that looked like it had doubled as a snow sled. More than once. Bent and wavy was better than nothing, she supposed.

“It's not weird.” Shane's glance took in the cookie sheet. “Hey, I have one of those?” His nod was akin to a big, fat
who knew
?

Bellamy laughed, the strain of a couple of minutes ago swept under the rug that was her issues. “You think you're surprised now, wait'll you see what you can actually do with one of these babies,” she cracked, spinning it around.

His laughter joined hers, and the sound of it warmed her, not just with its sexual heat, but with something else, something even more provocative.

She felt right, like she wanted to be here with him, just like this, indefinitely.

Ooookay, just because she was playing Suzie Homemaker in the guy's kitchen was no reason to go thinking she was falling for him or anything. They'd known each other for less than a full week, and while the chemistry between them would put most science experiments to shame, it would be silly to believe that raw attraction was the same thing as, well, a straight shot to the L-word.

“So, tell me about Pine Mountain,” she said, in an effort to move her mind from the land of the utterly ridiculous.

Shane's dark brows popped, as if it was the last thing he'd expected her to say.

Which made two of them.

“What do you want to know?” he asked with a tilt of his head.

Bellamy shrugged, focusing on the food in front of her. “I don't know. Surprise me.”

And that was how they spent the evening, with her as happy as a clam in his kitchen and him telling her about all of the intricacies of Pine Mountain. She got a little giggly over the wine, which turned out just fine, because Shane came dangerously close to gushing about the food, to the point that she actually blushed at the praise. Who would have thought that pork chops with a pomegranate reduction sauce could bring a tough guy like Shane to his knees?

A tough guy who, at that very moment, was looking at her with some seriously seductive eyes, like he wanted to have her for dessert.

“It gets kind of chilly in here at night. Why don't I make a fire?”

Too late
, Bellamy thought, trying like hell to ignore the tingle that was vibrating through her like the waves of a sexed-up tuning fork. “That sounds great,” she said, trying to convince herself that it was the wine making her want to sit down.

Sit down, tackle Shane to the ground and have her way with him . . . what was the difference, really?

Bellamy tucked her legs beneath her as she perched on the recliner, since it was the only place in the room to sit other than the tiny breakfast table where they'd just eaten. Wow, despite its age, the chair was really comfortable.