The Best Mistake of Her Life

“You were a half-grown woman.” The words came out throatier than he would have liked. He hooked his thumbs through his belt loops and leaned in closer, catching a whiff of her scent. “You were turned on by the guy your parents would’ve never let you date. The chemistry was impressive.”

“It’s your ego that was impressive.”

“With good reason.”

“Always the hero in your own script,” she drawled lightly.

Despite her light tone, her blue eyes bubbled with barely restrained emotions, yet he couldn’t identify the first one. Memphis couldn’t tell if she was disturbed by his nearness or irritated by his refusal to go along with her interpretation of the past. Time stretched until it grew uncomfortable, their history pulsing between them. In a space of a full ten seconds filled with desire, heat and intense pleasure, Memphis relived just how right this woman had felt in his arms. Although their moment hadn’t come until long after their teens, he didn’t trust the feeling, sure it was a figment of his lust-induced mind. His adolescent fantasy come to life.

How could she have felt anything but right when he’d spent years imagining how she would taste? And when she’d finally released all that careful restraint, it had been a life-changing experience that had caused him to doubt his instincts. Because in that moment it had felt as if she belonged to him….

He jerked his thoughts to a halt. Just who the hell was the real Kate?

She held his gaze, and he wondered if her cheeks were flushed from anger or desire. There was no answer. And when she turned back to straightening out the contents of his closet, Memphis watched in amazement as she reached for the next pair of holey jeans and refolded them, as well.

He studied her profile, her movements graceful and dignified even while performing a mundane task. “When you’re done in here you can rearrange the dirty clothes in my hamper if you like,” he said with a wry twist of his lips.

“No, thank you,” she said smoothly as she continued with her self-appointed duties.

“And I have dirty dishes in the dishwasher that could use restacking according to size.”

“I’m sure you’re capable of handling that yourself.”

“My underwear could use a good ironing, as well,” he said.

Kate sent him a sharp look from the corner of her eye, but continued to fold his last pair of jeans, placing it in a neat line with the others.

“Angel Face, I hate to be the one to break the bad news,” he said softly, but with no shortage of sarcasm. “But rearranging my clothes isn’t going to change them into designer brands.”

She picked up a T-shirt and began to fold it. “I realize that,” she said as, midtask, she faced him, her clear skin and high cheekbones capturing his gaze.

The regal set to her chin begged to be challenged with a kiss. And if he concentrated real hard, he’d remember that wasn’t the job he’d signed on for.

Instead, he said, “I’ve always wanted to ask, is the politically correct Kate a fixed product of her family genes or just a result of her upbringing?”

“Neither.” Her tone was cuttingly cool as she continued rearranging his T-shirts. “What you call political correctness the rest of the world calls being civil.”

A laugh burst from his throat, and he swept a stray lock of wheat-colored hair from her bare shoulder, hoping for a reaction. Or at least to get her to stop organizing the contents of his closet.

“I can handle polite as long as it’s some semblance of the truth.” Frustration shifted his voice an octave lower. “But what I can’t stand is when you bury your head in the sand and try to rewrite the truth.”

She straightened the last T-shirt, the closet now tidy, and turned to face him, crossing her arms. But he wasn’t sure if the posture was out of defiance or to shield herself from his proximity. “What truth am I trying to rewrite?”

“Your family.” His gaze held hers. “The past.” He paused and leaned in close, enjoying the look of discomfort on her face, even as his chest twisted at the haunting sight of her luscious lips. His voice came out low. “You and me.”

She hesitated, blinked once, and then hiked a delicate brow. “I’m doing nothing of the sort.”

Disappointed he hadn’t gotten the slightest rise from her, he said, “Then what are you doing?”

“Concluding that you have nothing appropriate to wear.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Am I supposed to care about that, too?”

“Not at all.” The smooth smile on her face should have been a warning, and he barely withheld the groan when she shared her plan. “Because tomorrow we’re going shopping.”

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