Kimberly Van Meter - An Imperfect Match / Next Comes Love

“What did I just say? Stop trying to save me! I can’t borrow one of your vehicles. What would people think?”

He looked at her incredulously. “Who cares?”

“I do.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that you worry about all the wrong things?”

She drew back. “Excuse me?”

“If you’re so worried about what people think why do you dress like you do?”

“I beg your pardon?” She could feel her cheeks pinking as a wave of mortification rolled over her. Suddenly, she was back in high school and the popular girls were criticizing her wardrobe. It was stupid to draw the parallel—she was not in high school any longer—but the feeling his statement evoked was pretty much the same. “Who are you to criticize my clothes?”

“Your boss,” he answered bluntly and she could only stare. Her momentary silence prompted him to continue though Annabelle was quite certain she didn’t want to hear any more of what Dean Halvorsen had to say.

“If you don’t want men to stare at your breasts don’t put them on a platter. If you don’t want people to think that you’re less than who you are, don’t give them an opportunity. You come to work decked out in hooker heels and tight tanks that leave nothing to the imagination and then act all indignant when men like Aaron Eagle come sniffing around.”

“I never encouraged that man’s attention. If you recall I was quite clear on how I stood in regards to his advances.” Stung, she blinked back angry tears. “And, excuse me, but I didn’t realize my wardrobe was so offensive. I thought I was dressed nicely,” she added, the starch in her tone disintegrating with a watery hiccup that made her cheeks burn that much more hotly for the pitiful sound. Grinding the moisture from her eyes, she pulled the afghan her mother had knitted from the top of the sofa and tucked it around herself as if the soft yarn could protect her from further insult, hoping the gesture was enough to communicate that he was no longer welcome.

But he didn’t leave. Damn the man. She sent a nasty look his way. “Anything else you have a problem with? My hair perhaps? Or my eyes? Maybe those aren’t to your liking, either.” Too bad. There was nothing she could do about those. Not that she could change her wardrobe, either. It wasn’t as if she had room in her budget for new clothes.

A long enough moment passed between them that Annabelle started to feel the silence as if it were a living, breathing thing and she wasn’t happy with its presence. She risked another glance his way, this time not as angry but still hurt, and she caught the open chagrin in his expression. She softened, knowing without having to hear the words that he felt bad, but she wasn’t ready to make the first move. Luckily, she didn’t have to.

Dean drew a deep breath. “You were dressed nicely. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it like that. Hell, I suck when it comes to saying things the right way.”

“You got that right,” Annabelle agreed softly, not quite ready to let him off the hook. She eyed him curiously. “So, what did you mean? Do you really hate the way I dress?”

“That answer is complicated.”

“Try simplifying.”

“It’s like this…” He drifted toward her, but she remained rooted where she stood. Soon, she was staring into a pair of eyes that were far too extraordinary to be called brown as they flared with brilliant flecks of hazel. She forgot herself and why she needed to keep her distance as he spoke again. “Annabelle, you have to know that you’re a beautiful woman with a stunning figure, but that’s just what’s on the surface and I know that’s probably all a lot of people see. I strive to keep things professional between us, but some days when you’re dressed like that…hell, woman, I’m just a man and all I can think of is you and it kills me. I shouldn’t be thinking of you in that way. I’m your boss.”

His eyes had the look of a man tortured by his admission, ashamed even by his perceived weakness, and Annabelle had a startling revelation. He was fighting as hard as she was to keep the lines drawn, but there seemed a current flowing between them that kept pulling them near to one another.

Annabelle was falling even though she was standing still, which was patently ridiculous. She realized with a breathy start that her gaze feasted on the promise of his lips, aching to know what it felt like to have them pressed against her own. Valid points. He made valid points, a voice in her head reminded her even as her feet seemed to move in the same direction, pulled on an invisible current toward one inevitable course.

“I like my clothes,” she said in a soft voice, looking up into Dean’s gorgeous eyes and wondering how she had never noticed their unusual color before this moment. “And I’m not going to change.”

“Yes, you will,” he murmured with a low growl that excited her in a way that defied explanation. His arms closed around her in a perfect fit, their bodies molding against one another until Annabelle struggled to remember why this was a bad idea. This was safety, a different voice whispered. This was home. No, this was a man who was off-limits and dangerous.

But it was too late. She was a goner. Probably hadn’t even had a chance from the moment he came toward her. Her fate had been sealed. But as far as fates go, she thought weakly, as his lips touched hers in a firm exploration that sparked little tingles up and down her body, this isn’t half-bad.

Shoot, if she was going to send her life to hell in a handbag, having Dean ride shotgun wasn’t a terrible idea.

What did she have to lose?

DEAN WAS a bundle of nerves. He wasn’t accustomed to acting like an idiot. Usually, he was the responsible one. The one who shouldered the family load without complaint.

And yet, here he was, itching from nervous apprehension over one stupid move.

What the hell was he thinking? That was an easy one to answer. He hadn’t been thinking. He didn’t know what came over him. It was as if he were under a spell or something. Yeah. That was it. A spell of stupidity. A wave of disgust rolled over him and he wondered if this was what happened to middle-aged men when they hit a midlife crisis. First comes the motorcycle, then the younger woman. Except, he’d skipped the wheels and gone straight to the hot babe.

Scrubbing his hands down his face, he tried focusing on the day ahead. Dana was bringing Annabelle and for that he was grateful. He needed a little time to get hold of himself. He’d spun away from Annabelle the moment his brain reengaged with a resounding What the hell are you doing? and after stammering some kind of lame excuse he’d practically run out of the house.

Judging by the stunned expression on her face, he doubted that was the reaction she’d expected. It probably made her feel like dirt, but he couldn’t help it. His feet had gone on autopilot and his body had had no choice but to follow. He’d screwed up. Dropped the ball. And now he had the aftermath to deal with, which would be awkward as hell as soon as she got here.

His heart pounded as the sound of Dana’s car in the driveway told him Annabelle had arrived. Under normal circumstances, he would’ve gone out to help with Honey, but he wanted to postpone this face-to-face as long as possible. Coward. He forced his attention to the bid sheet and not to the sound of footsteps coming toward the building.

But as the moment he’d been dreading arrived, Annabelle shocked the hell out of him when she did the exact opposite of what he expected.

She smiled as if nothing had happened.

“Good morning,” she said, placing Honey’s diaper bag in the corner and Honey on the floor while she constructed the playpen. “Don’t forget you have that lunch meeting with that new concrete guy over at The Grill and Brandon is going to be late tonight. He’s going over to Jessie’s after school.”