Read Online Tangled Up in Love by Heidi Betts - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Heidi Betts
Ads: Link
to.
Some might say she was secretive, but she liked to think she merely valued her privacy and chose to reflect a certain image in public that she didn’t necessarily maintain when she was alone.
And she would sincerely prefer Dylan only ever see her in her perfectly tailored power suits withoutknowing she came home and climbed into pink puppy-dog pajamas.
As far as small favors were concerned, she supposed she should be relieved that she hadn’t opted for her pair of Austin Powers
Do I make you horny, baby? Do I?
shorty pajamas.
There were some questions in life she
really
did not want Dylan to give her an answer for.
“Would you like something to drink?” she asked, however reluctantly, ignoring his comment.
He moved into the living area, making himself comfortable without an invitation to do so. “What have you got?”
She thought a minute, picturing the contents of her refrigerator. “Milk, juice, water . . .” A bottle of wine in one of the cupboards, but she didn’t mention that. She wasn’t going to waste good alcohol on him.
“No beer?” he asked.
“No, sorry.”
He glanced at the muted television screen as though checking to see what was on, then turned again to face her, towering over her low coffee table and small, overstuffed sofa.
“Guess I’ll take some juice, then.” His lips quirked as he shot her a relaxed smile. “Although, if you had a little vodka to spill in the glass, I wouldn’t complain.”
“Sorry, no vodka, either.”
“Spoilsport.”
Not bothering to reply, Ronnie turned on her heel and moved into the kitchenette to pour a glass of orange juice. When she returned to the living room, she found Dylan perched on the edge of the sofa, elbows on his knees, studying the open screen of her laptop.
“What are you doing?” she snapped, more sharply than she’d actually intended.
Lifting his head, he met her eyes and without a shred of remorse said, “Reading your column.”
As she moved forward, he slid over on the couch, making room for her and reaching for his drink. “It’s good. But the deli you’re talking about isn’t Sardowski’s on East Ninth, is it? Because I stop there a lot for takeout, and I don’t even want to think about what I’ve been eating if all this is true.”
The corner of her mouth twitched as she fought not to laugh. “You might want to consider finding somewhere else to pick up lunch,” she said by way of an answer, taking a seat on the cushion beside him.
With an overly dramatic groan, he threw himself back against the arm of the couch. “Oh, man, I feel sick. Maybe you should drive me to the hospital so I can have my stomach pumped.”
She chuckled, sipping from her own glass of water. “I think you’ll be all right. Though you may want to consider starting a course of heavy-duty antibiotics, just to be safe.”
Dylan groaned again and clutched his midsection, making Ronnie laugh even harder. He listened to the sound, feeling it slide down his spine and warm him to the soles of his feet.
A second later, she noticed him studying her and sobered. “What?” she asked, that same wariness that he noticed much too often creeping into her gaze.
“That’s a nice sound, your laughter.”
She rolled her eyes and pulled her shoulders back a fraction. “Don’t get used to it,” she told him, the words lacking any signs of warmth.
“Don’t worry,” he said, fighting the urge to grin, “I won’t.”
Sitting up straighter, he produced the yarn and needles he’d brought along . . . hell, the yarn and needles he’d been carrying everywhere with him, hoping for some miracle to occur and his fingers to suddenly get the hang of the sticks and stitches.
With an exaggerated sigh, she reached for the jumble of yarn and slid closer to him. Intentionally. Voluntarily. Without baring claws and teeth.
Dylan felt like calling Ripley’s and reporting a truly astounding event. It should be documented, investigated . . .
Some might say she was secretive, but she liked to think she merely valued her privacy and chose to reflect a certain image in public that she didn’t necessarily maintain when she was alone.
And she would sincerely prefer Dylan only ever see her in her perfectly tailored power suits withoutknowing she came home and climbed into pink puppy-dog pajamas.
As far as small favors were concerned, she supposed she should be relieved that she hadn’t opted for her pair of Austin Powers
Do I make you horny, baby? Do I?
shorty pajamas.
There were some questions in life she
really
did not want Dylan to give her an answer for.
“Would you like something to drink?” she asked, however reluctantly, ignoring his comment.
He moved into the living area, making himself comfortable without an invitation to do so. “What have you got?”
She thought a minute, picturing the contents of her refrigerator. “Milk, juice, water . . .” A bottle of wine in one of the cupboards, but she didn’t mention that. She wasn’t going to waste good alcohol on him.
“No beer?” he asked.
“No, sorry.”
He glanced at the muted television screen as though checking to see what was on, then turned again to face her, towering over her low coffee table and small, overstuffed sofa.
“Guess I’ll take some juice, then.” His lips quirked as he shot her a relaxed smile. “Although, if you had a little vodka to spill in the glass, I wouldn’t complain.”
“Sorry, no vodka, either.”
“Spoilsport.”
Not bothering to reply, Ronnie turned on her heel and moved into the kitchenette to pour a glass of orange juice. When she returned to the living room, she found Dylan perched on the edge of the sofa, elbows on his knees, studying the open screen of her laptop.
“What are you doing?” she snapped, more sharply than she’d actually intended.
Lifting his head, he met her eyes and without a shred of remorse said, “Reading your column.”
As she moved forward, he slid over on the couch, making room for her and reaching for his drink. “It’s good. But the deli you’re talking about isn’t Sardowski’s on East Ninth, is it? Because I stop there a lot for takeout, and I don’t even want to think about what I’ve been eating if all this is true.”
The corner of her mouth twitched as she fought not to laugh. “You might want to consider finding somewhere else to pick up lunch,” she said by way of an answer, taking a seat on the cushion beside him.
With an overly dramatic groan, he threw himself back against the arm of the couch. “Oh, man, I feel sick. Maybe you should drive me to the hospital so I can have my stomach pumped.”
She chuckled, sipping from her own glass of water. “I think you’ll be all right. Though you may want to consider starting a course of heavy-duty antibiotics, just to be safe.”
Dylan groaned again and clutched his midsection, making Ronnie laugh even harder. He listened to the sound, feeling it slide down his spine and warm him to the soles of his feet.
A second later, she noticed him studying her and sobered. “What?” she asked, that same wariness that he noticed much too often creeping into her gaze.
“That’s a nice sound, your laughter.”
She rolled her eyes and pulled her shoulders back a fraction. “Don’t get used to it,” she told him, the words lacking any signs of warmth.
“Don’t worry,” he said, fighting the urge to grin, “I won’t.”
Sitting up straighter, he produced the yarn and needles he’d brought along . . . hell, the yarn and needles he’d been carrying everywhere with him, hoping for some miracle to occur and his fingers to suddenly get the hang of the sticks and stitches.
With an exaggerated sigh, she reached for the jumble of yarn and slid closer to him. Intentionally. Voluntarily. Without baring claws and teeth.
Dylan felt like calling Ripley’s and reporting a truly astounding event. It should be documented, investigated . . .
Similar Books
