Helen Brenna - An Imperfect Match / Next Comes Love - An Imperfect Match / Next Comes Love

Tempting. Wildly tempting. Which is why she must decline but she wavered. “What’s on the menu?”

“I can only do one thing well.”

She blushed as her imagination provided a range of possibilities. Clearing her throat, she said, “Which is?”

“Barbecue.”

“Barbecue? Chicken? Fish? Steak?”

“Anything that tastes good charbroiled,” he answered. “Interested?”

Lord help me, yes. “Mildly.”

Dean pocketed his PDA and grabbed his keys. “See you at five. Bring your appetite,” he added with a wink.

Her breath hitched in her chest as she stared after him, trying not to gawk so hard that his jeans caught fire.

A woman could get used to a man like that. It was a full moment before her good sense returned and a regretful sigh followed. It seemed she had inherited her mother’s deplorable compass when it came to steering clear of trouble after all. Only she hadn’t gravitated toward a loser—quite the opposite. But it spelled trouble for Annabelle just the same.

So, what are you going to do about it? She worried her bottom lip and glanced toward Honey, who was playing with a set of toy keys Dean had picked up for her at the hardware store.

End it?

Yeah, how about trying that with a little conviction next time.

BY THE TIME Dean returned to the office he was humming. He entered the building with a smile and went straight to Honey, picking up the toddler as if it were perfectly natural to do so at the end of a long day, and fought the urge to kiss Annabelle. Instead, he grabbed Honey’s diaper bag and gestured for the door. “Shall we?”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” she asked, hesitating as she followed. “I mean, this is going a bit fast. I don’t want you to think that I expect anything from you just because…”

He glanced back at her, drank in the sight of her standing there backlit by the sun, her hair a fiery halo around her head, and his heart stuttered a beat. He transferred Honey to his other side and pulled Annabelle to him. She gasped, making an adorably feminine sound, and looked up at him with wide brown eyes. He lowered his head to hers and took her mouth firmly, leaving no doubt as to how he felt about her statement. “You worry too much,” he said against her mouth. “It’s just dinner, right?”

“One dinner, one kiss…I think we know how these things end up,” she said wryly, though the corners of her mouth turned up playfully. She pushed away from him. “Fine. Dinner it is, but don’t get used to this. I’m not your girlfriend.”

“What are you then?”

Her mouth quirked as if she didn’t quite know what to call herself and in the absence of knowing, simply shouldered the diaper bag and moved past Dean with a mumble under her breath that sounded a lot like, “office manager with benefits,” and he felt laughter rumble in his chest. He liked her—more than he should—and he knew the consequences would likely make his heartburn feel like a mild flicker.

ANNABELLE, wineglass in hand, studied the pictures on the wall while Dean made all sorts of racket in the kitchen that didn’t sound promising.

“You sure you know what you’re doing in there?” she asked, pausing to glance at a photo of Brandon as a little boy. Judging by the missing tooth, he was probably around seven. Cute. Although, that wasn’t surprising. Despite his crappy attitude toward her, he was a good-looking kid. He favored Beth, it seemed, with his facial features, but he’d got Dean’s wide shoulders. Honey giggled as Dean’s cat wound his way around her small body, twitching his ringed tail next to her face until she sneezed.

“Bless you, Honey-pie,” she murmured, then sighed. Honey looked like Thad, down to her blue eyes and flaxen hair, but somehow a feminine version of Thad had turned out quite lovely. She walked to Honey and picked her up. “Let’s see what culinary treat Dean is subjecting us to. Let’s hope it’s edible.”

Annabelle needn’t have worried, she realized, for, as she rounded the corner to the dining room, Dean had laid a cozy setting for three, though he had wisely left the candles that graced the oak table unlit. A steaming pot of green beans and another of garlic mashed potatoes sat beside a plate of roasted boneless chicken and Annabelle’s mouth watered. “I’d say you can barbecue for me anytime,” she said, taking a seat with Honey, wondering if she’d ever smelled anything so good. “If I ate like this every night I’d be fatter than a deer tick,” she admitted with a rueful smile.

“I’m not one to complain about a little meat on a woman’s bones,” Dean said with a grin that made her feel naked. “Women are supposed to be soft and full of curves. You’re just about perfect in that area,” he added, and she blushed.

Dean disappeared, saying he’d be right back. Annabelle was grateful for the short reprieve so that she could get her head back on straight. How was a woman supposed to stay focused when the guy said things designed to make her melt? Dean returned with a beautiful wooden high chair and she lost whatever resistance she was trying to wage against falling for him.

“This was Brandon’s.” He plucked Honey from her lap before Annabelle could offer a weak protest, and slipped her into the old chair as easily as if he were accustomed to doing so every night. “Still works. Beth’s father made this chair for Brandon before he was born. It’s an heirloom we figured we could give to Brandon when he had kids but it’s just gathering dust for now.”

“Are you sure Brandon won’t mind?”

“Well, until I give it to him for his family, technically, it’s mine. I’d say he has no say in the matter,” he said firmly, signifying an end to that particular conversation, but Annabelle was a little uncomfortable. She had enough issues with the teenager; she didn’t need to compound them.

“Dean…”

“Annabelle,” he said softly, stopping her from continuing. “Let’s just enjoy dinner.”

She nodded. He was right. Brandon wasn’t here tonight, and it wasn’t likely she’d make a habit of coming over for meals, so she’d just enjoy dinner, as Dean said. She smiled. “Pass the potatoes, please. Honey likes the kind that come out of a box, but I think she’ll love these.”

“Potatoes should never come out of a box,” Dean said. “My mom would die before she put something out of a box on her table.”

“Well, not everyone was raised with the Bradys,” Annabelle said, placing a dollop of potatoes on her own plate. “My mom did the best that she could with what she had. And sometimes all we had came from a box.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean said. “I didn’t mean to be offensive.”

She shrugged. “No harm, no foul. But not everyone grew up like you did.”

“Tell me about what it was like to grow up in your home,” he said, and she immediately regretted her candid comments.

She waved away his request. “It’s nothing worth talking about.” True to a point. Her childhood was something right out of a Lifetime TV movie of the week. But who wanted to share that? Certainly not her. “Why do you ask?”

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