Christine Pacheco - A Husband In Her Stocking

Her shoulders sagged. This situation was getting more and more complicated by the minute.

The faint scent of sulphur wafted on the air, and she heard the crackle of wood.

Kyle Murdock was making himself at home in her house.

The splashing noise from the coffeemaker diminished, and the bread-making machine, bought as an indulgence during a lonely Thanksgiving weekend, beeped three times, indicating it was done.

Snowflake pawed at the dog food he’d proudly pulled from the cupboard, telling Meghan in no uncertain terms that he was hungry, too.

After obligingly dumping moist food in a bowl adorned with Snowflake’s name, Meghan started to stack the metal cans again, making a mental note to buy a latch for the cupboard door. Snowflake had made his favorite pastime—eating—into an annoying habit.

“Anything I can do to help?”

The sound of Kyle’s rich baritone made Meghan jump. How on earth had he approached without her hearing?

She didn’t look at him; instead, she picked up a metal can and added it to the pile. “Everything’s under control.”

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” she lied.

He crouched next to her, muscular thigh pressed against her own, softer one. Strange sensations startled her.

Without a word, Kyle straightened the haphazard stack she’d made, then reached for the final can.

Reluctantly, she gave it to him.

He stood, offering his hand to her.

Meghan looked at him.

“I scare you.”

“No.” Her lie was blatant.

“I do.”

She shook her head too fast.

He continued to hold out his hand. A challenge?

Against her better sense, Meghan accepted. She swore to herself she wasn’t frightened, yet she was forced to admit she felt a definite awareness of him as a powerful male.

He pulled her up, not stopping until she stood barely inches from him. Her pulse thundered and heat suffused her.

She felt...womanly.

“Prove it.”

She had to look up, a long way, to meet his gaze. He was tall, a little over six foot, a huge contrast to her five feet three inches. His hands were large, and as she couldn’t help but notice, lacked a wedding band.

The scent of him, that of mountain air and power, combined with his proximity, his touch, his commanding hold, made Meghan moisten her teeth with her tongue. She recognized the nervous gesture, had cultivated it over the years. And she’d never hated the habit as much as she did at this second.

“Prove it,” he challenged again. “Prove you’re not scared of me.”

She swallowed. “Prove it?”

“Give me something.”

Her mind raced in symphony with the hammering of her heart.

“Your name,” Kyle said softly. “Tell me your name.”

Two

The challenge hung in the air between them, as powerful as the pounding of his heart. He noticed her breaths were hollow, and he saw the confusion that raced across her features.

For a second, her lashes drifted together, shutting out the honesty her eyes contained. Would she grant him the gift of her name? Could she?

Could she not?

Her lashes parted, and she looked at him. Directly. Her expression was so direct that the sensation rocked him to the soles of his feet.

“Meghan,” she said.

“Meghan,” he repeated, sliding the syllables around his tongue, savoring its subtle taste.

“Meghan Carroll.”

He nodded. The name fit. Soft Feminine. And with a hint of mystery. Meghan. Yeah. He liked it...liked it a lot.

She shifted; he wondered if she was waiting expectantly for his response.

“Nice name.”

The release of her breath sifted through him. She had been waiting. That said a lot about her. But one thing was sure: she wasn’t frightened of him. Skittish maybe, but not scared. That instantly upped his opinion of her. Kyle didn’t care much for spinelessness.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

Her tone was reluctant, as if she knew she had to ask the question, but regretted the necessity. Still, he answered with honesty. “Starving.”

“I guess...you should eat with me.”

“Is that an invitation?” Kyle cocked a grin.

The tension on her face lessened. “Sorry, I didn’t mean for it to sound that way.”

“What way?” He waited for her to respond, wondered if she’d do it with the same frankness she’d shown so far.

“Rude. That was rude, and I’m not usually rude.”

“Do you usually have strange men in your kitchen?”

With her right hand, she brushed errant strands of hair away from her face. He stood close to her, closer than she probably liked, yet he didn’t back off.

Kyle caught the faint whiff of her understated perfume—light with a hint of unfulfilled promise—and couldn’t recall the last time he’d been with a woman as sensually appealing as Meghan.

He wondered why he suddenly felt hungry, not physically but emotionally.

“No,” she finally admitted. “You’re the first man who’s been in my kitchen.”

The information stunned him, pleased him. It shouldn’t have, but it did. And how.

“I’ll serve,” Meghan said, shattering the tension that had slowly been building. “If you set the table.”

“Ah, a modern woman.”

She gave a small smile that transformed her features and made his insides flame with awareness.

“You can do the dishes, too,” she said.

“Do I smell homemade bread?”

She indicated a small white appliance. “Bread-maker—my one extravagance this year.”

“All this for the measly price of setting the table and washing the dishes?”

“I hate doing dishes.”

Slowly, she’d revealed several aspects of her personality. Kyle wanted each stripped and laid bare before him. And he had a few thoughts about what to do once they were. “Lady, you’ve got a deal.”

Kyle hadn’t been in a kitchen like this for years. It covered at least three hundred square feet, huge, rambling and, by today’s standards, a waste of space.

But he remembered a similar kitchen, always filled with the scent of spice. Kyle also recalled helping his grandmother, Grandma Aggie, in that kitchen, begging for the honor of cracking the eggs against the ancient metal strip surrounding the counter.

“Something funny?” Meghan asked.

Startled at her perception, he looked up from setting bowls and silverware on the table.

“You’re smiling,” she added.

“My grandmother had a kitchen like this. Brings back memories.” His own designer kitchenette didn’t look anything similar to either. Meghan’s kitchen didn’t have a microwave; his was built in above the stove he’d never used. Nor did she have a dishwasher. But she had something he didn’t: a feeling of home.

Kyle realized he wouldn’t have been as comfortable in her home if her kitchen had resembled his. That thought gave him pause, made him question, again, his reasons for deciding to return to Chicago and accept control of Murdock Enterprises—his father’s business—in the New Year.

Snowflake entered the kitchen, toenails clicking on the worn floor. He curled beneath the table, apparently anxious for handouts. Judging by the extra few pounds on the mutt, Meghan was an indulgent mistress.

A soft heart.

No surprise there. He wouldn’t be shocked to learn Snowflake had shown up on her doorstep—much like Kyle—and that she’d kept the animal.

Meghan poured two cups of coffee, then joined Kyle at the table. Their knees brushed. Their glances collided. And then she slammed him in the solar plexus by licking her lower lip.

Longing. And an urge to possess.

Neither feeling was welcome. But there they were, raw and honest. Trouble was, there wasn’t a thing he could do about them.