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“Why don’t I take it?” He swiped the phone from her hands before she could complain and snapped off a photo.

As they stepped into the hall and he heard the door close behind them, Luke’s whole body sagged in relief.

“Well, that was . . . interesting,” Anna remarked as they let themselves back into the condo.

“One word for it.” Dire was another. Never to be repeated was four.

“I got a dinner out of it, so I’m not complaining.”

“Yeah, about that.”

She swiveled to face him. “Oh no, you’re not getting out of it.”

He sighed. “I wasn’t trying to.” He studied her face. “Do you really want me to eat with you?”

Her gaze dropped to the floor. “Not if you don’t want to.”

“I do want to.” He shuffled on his feet. “And not because I think you’re pretty.” Fuck. “Not that I don’t think you are.”

“You said very pretty.”

He knew when he was being teased. “Okay, I stand by that remark. But actually I’d like to eat with you because I enjoy your company.” Because he didn’t want to scare her by sounding like he was coming on to her, he added. “And I already know how to right a canoe when its capsized.”

She dug her finger into his ribs. “Funny. How am I supposed to know about your work when you don’t talk about it? Speaking of talking, how come you were so terrified of talking to Pearl?”

He couldn’t admit to being scared he’d say something incriminating—hell, he’d blurted out very pretty without any thumb screws—so he went with a partial truth. “I’m not used to old people. I don’t come across them very often.”

Her eyes twinkled back at him. “But you’re a chatterbox with the youngsters, huh?”

He smiled. “Maybe one day you’ll get to see.”

He found himself hoping that behind one of Colin’s windows was a day working with kids in the outdoors, an area where he had at least a modicum of skill.

Then spent the rest of the evening worrying about why it was so important for him to impress her.

December 8th

Anna puffed as she walked up the steps to the condo building and into the elevator. She’d not been for a jog—she couldn’t call it running—in a while and it showed. She supposed she should thank Luke for guilting her into it finally.

There were only so many times she could watch his barely out of breath figure walk back into the condo in those shorts that looked far too flimsy for winter and not feel . . . inspired.

After letting herself in to her condo, she threw her sneakers off at the door . . . and nearly tripped over them when she caught sight of the figure at the end of the hall. Wearing only a towel.

Holy cow. Her belly swooped, and all her blood seemed to pool between her thighs.

There was something about a muscular man wearing a white towel around his waist that shouted sexy.

The rear view of Luke’s broad naked back, those defined deltoids, that firm, sculpted butt, the outline distinctly visible beneath the white towel, those long, runners legs . . . Luke Harris didn’t just shout it. He screamed it.

He must have heard the front door—or maybe he heard her hormones crying—because he turned around.

Good God. Her legs nearly gave way and she slapped a hand on the wall to steady herself. “Tired,” she wheezed. “Been for a run.”

Her eyes fixated on his pecs, on the tanned skin, the smattering of dark hair. Then dropped lower to the undulating ridges of his abdomen. Nope, she wasn’t going to count whether that was a six pack or an eight pack. Nor was she going to focus on the cut of his obliques, definitely wasn’t going to stare at that dark trail of hair that snuck beneath the towel.

“Anna?” Her eyes snapped up to his with a guilty start. “Are you ogling my chest?”

She gave her throat a desperate clear. “If you don’t want me to look, don’t walk around half naked.”