was even prettier than he’d remembered. The upturned collar on her white sweater framed a face he’d seen more than once in his dreams. It was strange that delicate never crossed his mind, he thought as he looked at the clean, gently curved angles of her brow and cheeks, the bare hint of freckles across the bridge of her nose, or the full softness of her lips. Kissing came to mind, lots of it. With very little effort, he remembered the taste of her on his tongue, the feel of her in his hands and under his mouth.
“How are you feeling this morning?” he asked, keeping his thoughts to himself, and, hopefully, the leering gleam out of his eyes.
“Better than you look,” Stevie lied, enjoying the easy banter, and despite her best intentions, the scenery. Even hung over, he looked good, real good. The muscles in his arms, though relaxed, were tight and fully curved, hard and nut-brown against the whiteness of a color-splashed T-shirt, which she was happy to see covered most of his open fly. Underneath the cotton, she saw the ripple of even more clean muscle as he shifted his body and rested against the doorjamb. Then, of course, there was the dark stretch of bare skin revealed by the thigh-length tear in his soft denim jeans. Therein stood the pleasure and the trouble in looking at him.
But Kip had taught her a lesson about good-looking men. She refused to make the same mistake twice, and therein stood her protection against Hal’s incredibly blue eyes. As long as she didn’t linger, as long as she kept the conversation going, she was immune—at least for all practical purposes. Last night’s moments of sensual confusion were history.
“That’s not saying a helluva lot.” The lift of his eyebrows told her he expected more.
Graciously, she conceded. “Okay, thanks to you and your chivalry, I’m feeling pretty good.”
Finally, some gratitude; he felt better already.
“For a cup of coffee, I’ll go back into town and break his arms, or his legs, or his neck. Your choice. Throw in a hot shower, and I’ll break every bone in his body,” he said.
Stevie had already figured out that Halsey Morgan wasn’t a man who gave up easily. She also hadn’t expected to get off with a few beers and a shot of scotch, especially since they’d done him more harm than good.
“Coffee’s on the house,” she said, dropping her chair back to four legs and rising. “But I’ll warn you, most of the time I can’t give it away. My dad won’t get within ten feet of the stuff.”
“I think I can handle it,” he replied, stepping in out of the sunshine and into the warmth of the kitchen, closing the door behind him.
Passing him on her way to the counter, Stevie tossed her braid over her shoulder and said, “We’ll see.”
The indication, however slight, was enough to form a doubt in his mind. He’d never been cut down by a cup of coffee before, but if it could possibly happen, he knew it would be hers that did it to him.
While he settled into a chair, Stevie busied herself with finding an unchipped mug. The task almost proved beyond her as she passed over first one and then another, until she saw a black and white one in the far corner of the cupboard, her “Don’t bother me, I’m having a mid-life crisis” mug. The phrase matched Hal Morgan’s morning to a tee, and smothering a chuckle, she filled it.
Passing him the cup first, she rested back against the counter and waited.
Hal didn’t like the way she was looking at him, but he forged ahead, passing the coffee under his nose. “Smells great,” he said, somewhat surprised. He glanced down. “Looks good.” Then he saw the inscription. “Cute cup,” he finished off with a tight smile and lifted the mug to his mouth.
“It was a gift from a friend”—Stevie casually crossed her arms—“to celebrate my divorce.”
Hal choked on her words and the god-awful brew. Sputtering and mad, he leveled a steely-eyed glare at her. “Dammit, Stevie, you did