Unguarded. Tracy Wolff

sure not to crowd her, Shawn studied her for a moment and saw with satisfaction that the haunted look he’d noticed outside was gone from her eyes, and her pale cheeks were now flushed with color. He didn’t know what had happened out there, what had turned her so suddenly skittish, but he’d known it was bad—even before she’d drifted away from him. “Come on, let’s eat. I’m hungry.”

      “You’re the one blocking the path to the kitchen.”

      “Excuse me.” He moved to the side, gesturing for her to lead the way. Which she did with a flash of her dimple that told him, better than words, that she was trying to recover from what had happened outside.

      Dinner was an almost relaxed affair, filled with talk of the party and a little bit of silly banter between them—initiated by him, of course. But Rhiannon kept up her end of the conversation, and he could tell by the gradual warming of her eyes that she was enjoying it almost as much as he was. He kept trying to make her laugh again, but her reserve had kicked in and the best he could get was an occasional quirk of her lips.

      It wasn’t enough for him, but he made do—especially as sitting across from Rhiannon was no hardship. She looked sexily disheveled—her hair tousled from the run, her cheeks pink, her dress just a little bit askew. It was a good look for her, one that was as far from the woman he’d first met at Robert and Lissa’s party as she could get.

      When it was her turn to talk, he got lost in the soft, melodic sound of her voice as she recounted some of her experiences as a party planner—including a few truly hilarious incidents that had him all but rolling on the floor with laughter. She complimented him on the food, again, and though it was one of his favorite meals, he barely paid any attention to it. He was too busy watching that crazy dimple of hers, cataloging the little laugh lines at the corners of her eyes, counting the freckles on her left cheek that formed a tiny star he wanted nothing more than to trace with his tongue.

      Watching her, it occurred to him—not for the first time—that people would probably say she was too old for him. He didn’t know her exact age, but his best guess put her at somewhere around thirty-six or thirty-seven, years older than his own twenty-nine. But it didn’t matter to him, not when he couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed having dinner with a woman this much.

      Besides, age had never been an issue to him when it came to women. While it was true that he’d never dated a woman more than one or two years older than him before, the idea didn’t bother him as it would some of his friends. For him, it was all about the chemistry, about how he felt when he looked at a woman, talked to her, touched her. If she interested him, that was enough, and Rhiannon—with all of her stops and goes, all of her contradictions and complications—interested him more than any woman had in a long time.

      Where else would he find a poised, sophisticated woman who was as interested in watching a slasher movie as she was in going to an art gallery? A woman who could discuss politics one minute and Willie Nelson and the city’s Keep Austin Weird campaign the next? Who cared if she was twenty-seven or thirty-seven or even forty-seven as long as there was a spark between them? And while he still wasn’t sure about Rhiannon’s side, he knew that on his there was a hell of a lot more than a spark going on.

      Now, if only he could get her interested in baseball, it’d be a match made in heaven.

      When they were finished eating, she insisted on helping him clear the table before he ushered her into the family room he loved. The back wall was all windows and it had an incredible view of the lake—at the end of a long day of writing, he liked nothing more than sitting on his sofa and watching the sun set over Lake Travis.

      “You know, we could set up a bar in the corner over there, along with a couple of food stations.” Rhiannon stood in the middle of the room, turning in a slow circle as she examined every nook and cranny. As she did, he wondered how she could stand there, surrounded by such an incredible view—the lights were still on outside and his entire backyard had a soft, mellow glow—and think only of work. Especially when it was the farthest thing from his mind.

      “Maybe a pasta station over here in this corner—very Mafia Times—and then in the center of the room, we could—”

      “Do you ever think about anything but work?” he interrupted her, simply to see what she would do.

      She didn’t even break stride. “—have prizes for the games. Or at least a prize booth where they could trade tickets in. Movie memorabilia, that kind of thing. I’m not sure how much it would cost, but I think it could be doable.” She finally paused for a breath. “How much are you thinking of budget wise? I started to ask you when we were outside, but we got sidetracked.”

      “I don’t know. What’s a reasonable number for this kind of party?”

      She named a price that had his eyes widening and his hand clutching at his wallet where it rested in the back pocket of his jeans. Beer and chips weren’t sounding so bad after all.

      “For a casual party?” he asked incredulously. “How much would the formal party have been?”

      “Probably about the same,” she admitted wryly. “If that’s more than you were wanting to spend, we can tone things down a bit. There doesn’t have to be—”

      He cut her off before she could gain any more momentum and launch into another spiel, partly because in the end he didn’t care that much—after all, he had the money—and partly because he could think of any number of more interesting things to talk about with her than the virtues of a party with a budget that just might rival the national debt of a small country.

      “Work up a budget for our next meeting, like you were planning on, and we’ll take it from there. Okay?”

      “Of course.” She cleared her throat. “I should probably be going then.”

      “Why?”

      “Why what?”

      Her brow was furrowed in confusion and he wanted nothing more then to step forward and smooth it out. But, despite the fact that she’d relaxed some over dinner, Rhiannon still had enough No Trespassing signs around her to stop a blind man in his tracks. “Why do you want to leave? You haven’t even opened your present yet.”

      Her eyes narrowed. “You bought me a present?”

      “I did.” He crossed to the bar, pulled out the large, colorful bag he’d placed there earlier in the day, and held it out to her.

      She didn’t take it, didn’t do anything but stare at the gift—and him—like they were cobras poised to strike. In return, he stayed right where he was, not saying anything, not moving, barely even breathing as he waited to see what she would do.

      “Why would you do that? You barely know me.”

      “True, but I like what I do know of you. And as to why I bought the present—” He dangled it on a fingertip, watching as her eyes followed its back-and-forth motion as if hypnotized. “I saw it at the store today and it made me think of you. Besides, your education is sorely lacking in some areas and I thought this could even it out a little.”

      “Sorely lacking?” From the look on her face, he could tell she wasn’t sure whether she should be insulted or not. Which was fine with Shawn, as the confusion—and mild insult—propelled her across the room to him.

      “What’s in the bag?” she demanded, when she was only a few steps away.

      He extended his arm so that she only had to come a couple feet closer to look inside it. “Why don’t you look inside and find out?”

      She didn’t move for the longest time, and neither did he, though the waiting was killing him. He loved to give presents, loved to see how the woman in his life reacted when she got them, but he’d never had anyone react to a gift from him quite like Rhiannon was. Her suspicion made him a little sad—not to mention angry at the bastard who had hurt her enough that a simple foil bag could have her gnawing on her lip until she was close to drawing blood.

      “Whatever