Page 7 of This Could Be Us
“I won’t be long, but there was something we were closing right before I left the office. There’s no room for error.”
“Of course,” I say stiffly, selecting a plate from the stack of china at the end of the table.
“Be right back.”
He walks away, heading straight for the woman smiling at him from across the room. I’ve seen her name flash up on his phone and have even caught a glimpse of her young, pretty face and silvery blond hair on-screen during video conference calls, but this is the first time we’ve been in the same room. She oozes sensuality in the dress seemingly shellacked to her lithe figure. Judging by the appreciative smile on Edward’s face, he’s not concerned withherdress being too revealing or drawing undue attention. They leave the room, heads bent together conspiratorially. Holding my empty plate, I push down the persistent sense of unease.
“Are you in line?”
A woman I recognize as the wife of one of the department heads stands behind me, sliding an impatient look from the stack of plates to my immovable self.
“Oh, sorry!” I let her pass me in line for the buffet. As awful as the food usually tastes at these Christmas parties, I bet she won’t be eager for long.
I’m scooping up green beans that look about as stiff and unseasoned as starched flannel when a movement at the door distracts me. A tall man stands a few feet away, filling the doorframe. He’s handsome, with skin the color of burnt umber stretched over features constructed of steel and stone, but that’s not what is so arresting. He’s notthattall. Maybe an inch over six feet. He’d tower over my five four, but it’s not his height that sets him apart either. It’s the contrast between the utter stillness of his athletic frame and the energy he emits in waves, like there’s a million thoughts swirling behind those dark eyes. There’s something imposing about the set of his shoulders, the proud angle of his head, that gives the impression of looking down. Not exactly arrogantly, but literally looking down, like he watches from an aerial shot and is analyzing everyone and everything in minute detail. Thoseassessing eyes gleam beneath a bridge of a brow, the dark line dipped into a slight frown.
He stands there, seemingly at ease, with his hands thrust into the pockets of well-tailored pants. His gaze passes slowly over the occupants of the room, never pausing too long on any one thing or person. How would it feel to hold his full attention? To be the object of that stare, a gaze so sharp it could pin you to the wall? It’s as if he’s searching for someone he hasn’t found. His survey reaches the buffet table, passing indifferently over us, but then swings back.
To me.
I wondered how it would feel to hold his full attention, and it’s nothing like I thought. There’s nothing cold about his intent stare. It heats with interest. I assumed you’d feel like an insect trapped beneath the cold glass of a microscope. Instead, my breath catches when he tilts his head and narrows his gaze on me, like I’m a particularly fascinating butterfly whose every detail he should take in before it flits away. I realize our eyes have been locked for seconds and look down, breathing easily for the first time since he entered the room. Trying to ignore the unreasonably frantic pounding of my heart, I reach for the serving fork and pierce an anemic drumstick.
“The chicken looks dry,” a man remarks beside me.
I startle, trying not to gape at the guy who moved from the door to my side so fast.
“Oh, yeah.” I drop my eyes to the unsavory meat on my plate and clear my throat. “Not too, um, appetizing.”
I shuffle forward, training my stare on the back of the woman who was so eager to get to this bland food.
“I don’t have room to talk,” he continues, his voice washing over my shoulders and neck, the deep rumble raising long-forgotten goose bumps. “I’m not a chef myself, but I’m not catering this event, so I don’t have to be.”
“True.” I release a laugh, not looking back even though I canfeelhis stare burning between my shoulder blades.
“Maybe it’s better than it looks,” he says, the faint sounds of him serving himself reaching me from behind.
“It’s not.” I even my voice out, irritated that I’m so disconcerted by a man doing nothing more than getting his food in the buffet line. “Pretty sure a Callahan cousin caters this party every year, so you’ll soon be enjoying the sweet taste of nepotism.”
“Explains a lot. You cook?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“You any good at it?” he asks, amusement threading the question.
I pause and glance over my shoulder, allowing a small grin. “I’m actually really good at it.”
“A confident woman.” His smile melts at the corners as our eyes hold. “I like it.”
I hastily turn back around and move forward with the line, scooping a lumpy mound of potatoes onto my plate.
“What’s your favorite dish to make?” he asks.
I smile but don’t risk facing him again. “Carne guisada.”
“Come again? I don’t know what that is.Carnesounds like steak or beef.”
“It is. It’s a beef stew we make in Puerto Rico.”
“You’re from Puerto Rico?”