Unguarded. Tracy Wolff

of his afternoon making. Rhiannon was late. Not stand-him-up-late, or even kind-of-rude late—at least, not yet. But still, the seconds were crawling by, probably because he’d spent all day counting down to seven-thirty, only to have it come and go with no fanfare whatsoever.

      Lifting the wooden spoon to his lips, Shawn tasted his maternal grandmother’s pasta sauce with a grin. Like always, it was delicious. He’d have to tell her so the next time they spoke.

      He glanced at the clock. Seven forty-five. She’d probably just gotten hung up at the party—it was her job to take care of things, after all. Besides, normally he wouldn’t even notice if his date was late—he’d be too engrossed in working on the latest adventures of Shadeslayer. But he hadn’t been able to write a word or draw a picture all day—he’d been too busy thinking about Rhiannon.

      It was ridiculous, really, how excited he was about this date. He’d dated a lot of women through the years—since Cynthia had died, he’d made it a point not to get serious about any of them—so he couldn’t figure out why he was getting so worked up this time. Over this woman.

      Sure, she was beautiful, but he’d learned long ago that beauty was often only skin deep. Cynthia had been absolutely gorgeous, yet when they’d been engaged, she’d made his life a living hell for longer than he cared to remember.

      No, it wasn’t Rhiannon’s looks he was responding to so strongly. Maybe it was her cautious sense of humor, the one she kept hidden but that came out at the best moments? Or the fact that she was extremely cautious, yet had chosen to come here anyway. She might look fragile, she might even be fragile, but she was braver than he’d first given her credit for. And that he admired the hell out of her for.

      The ringing of his doorbell had him all but leaping over the counter. Telling himself to chill—or he really would scare her away—Shawn headed through the entryway to the front door. He pulled it open, and couldn’t stop the smile that stretched across his face.

      She looked good—really good—all dressed up from the afternoon garden party in a long-sleeved wrap-dress of navy silk. Her briefcase was slung over her shoulder and though he caught tantalizing glimpses of cleavage as she stepped inside, it was her smile that really caught his attention. Wide and happy, it transformed her whole face from sedately beautiful to breathtaking. If he looked closely, he could even see that small, peekaboo dimple in her left cheek. It made her look like a teenager.

      “I’m sorry I’m late. The party ran long, and then the caterers took forever to clean up. Which ended up being nice, actually, because it gave the client plenty of time to gush about how great the party was. Seven of the guests walked away with my business card, promising to call early next week.” She laughed, a sweet, tinkling sound he’d never heard from her before. Which was a shame—she had a great laugh, though it sounded a little rusty, and it bugged him that she usually held herself back so much.

      “Believe me, I understand how work can wreak havoc on the best-laid plans.” He rested a light hand on her lower back as he ushered her through to the kitchen. “I have a tendency to get lost in my own world when I’m working.”

      “You don’t have to tell me that. I know all about you artistic types.”

      Something dangerous flashed inside him, something he couldn’t name. Jealousy, maybe, that she’d been with some artistic type before him? But that was stupid—it wasn’t like there was anything between them. Yet. Still, he couldn’t resist asking, “Really? And how is it you’re so intimately acquainted with us artistic types?”

      She paused at his tone, and he watched as her normal reserve came back. He could have kicked himself. “My whole family has an artistic bent of one type or another,” she said, all traces of levity gone. “My oldest brother’s an architect now, but when he was younger he had visions of being a great artiste. My mother was amazed he made it through adolescence without chopping off an ear.”

      “His own or someone else’s?”

      She inclined her head. “Either or. Matt was a handful when he was young.”

      “Do you have any other siblings?” he asked, watching her look around his kitchen in admiration. It was stupid, but he felt his chest swell at the thought that she so obviously liked something that was such an intrinsic part of him.

      “Twin sisters, who are also younger than I. One designs jewelry and the other designs clothes.”

      “And you plan parties.”

      Something flickered in her eyes. “Yes, not very artistic of me I must admit, but it pays the bills nicely. I figure that’s something.”

      “It is,” he agreed, as he gestured for her to sit at the bar that ran along the center island of the kitchen.

      “You’re cooking!” She stared at the stove as if she’d never seen one before. “You really didn’t have to do that.”

      “I figured you’d be hungry after going from one party to another today.” He poured some pasta into the pot of water boiling on the stove. “Have you already eaten?”

      “Yes, I—” She shook her head at the skeptical look he shot her. “No, I haven’t. Not since my cup of yogurt this morning, anyway. I’d planned to grab something on the way here, but I was running late and didn’t want to be any later.”

      “I could have waited a few more minutes, Rhiannon. But I’m glad you didn’t eat—it’s always nicer to cook for someone else.”

      “It smells delicious.”

      “It tastes even better. It’s an old family recipe.” He stirred the pasta sauce, then held the wooden spoon up to her lips. “Here, try.”

      At first he thought she was going to refuse, but right before he lowered the spoon, she leaned forward and took a tentative lick, her eyes widening as she tasted the tangy mix of tomatoes, garlic and fresh herbs. “That’s really good.” She took another, bigger bite.

      “You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

      “I’m sorry. It’s just, I’m not used to men who can cook that well.”

      “You must be hanging out with the wrong kind of men.”

      “You have no idea.” A shadow passed across her face, turning her already serious expression almost sad. Her brown eyes flickered and grew darker, and he couldn’t help wondering what had happened to her that had put that look on her face.

      It set off an alarm deep inside him, had him thinking that maybe he should take a step back. Reserved was one thing, but the last thing he really needed was to get involved with another woman who was damaged. Surviving Cynthia had nearly killed him.

      The first awkward silence of the night descended as he popped the garlic bread in the oven. He waited for her to say something, but she didn’t, and the stillness stretched from awkward to downright uncomfortable.

      “I’m no whiz, but I can follow my grandmother’s recipe pretty well,” he commented in an effort to get things back on track. “She’s a genius in the kitchen.”

      “Evidently.” She grabbed on to the verbal life preserver with both hands. “But you’re obviously no slouch, if that sauce is any indication.”

      “Thanks. Dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes. Can I get you a drink while we wait?” He gestured to the bottle of red wine he had resting on the counter.

      “Actually, a glass of water would be great. I’m parched from all the talking I had to do today.”

      “Sure.” He filled a glass, handed it to her.

      “I’d love to see your backyard—get a chance to look at the space.”

      “Absolutely.” He led them through the family room toward the back door that would take them out to the large deck he and Robert had built the summer before last.

      “Wow.” She glanced around the huge room,