Usually, my Excel spreadsheets only make me sweat because my budget doesn’t make sense, but once Rob leaned against the counter with his eyes intent on my fundraiser plans, I found myself chewing on my lip anxiously. I wanted him to think well of me.

“People love to do good things,” Rob told me, finally glancing up. The sun filtering in from the enormous kitchen windows caught the silver glint in his blue eyes. “Especially when they aren’t really doing anything at all.”

“People also love beach barbecues.” I felt like I couldn’t give that up without a fight.

“They love getting dressed up, dancing, and drinking fancy cocktails more. Enough to also love giving their money to feral cats.”

“You make it sound like the cats will walk amongst them, serving hors d’oeuvres.”

There was something gratifying about his enthusiasm. He leaned on the kitchen island across from me, with his powerful forearms braced on the granite and his posture boyish even though his big shoulders were all grown-up.

“I don’t know about having a dance,” I said. Even though I already felt myself caving.

"It's not a dance. It's not junior high," he teased. Then, with an over-the-top expression of understanding coming over his face, he exclaimed, "Oh. Ohh. You can't dance."

"It wouldn't matter if I could dance or not. It's not my party."

"Right, it's for the kittens," he said, as if he were the one reminding me.

I couldn’t help but imagine a big, successful event where the champagne flowed, the people laughed, and the donations rolled in. I could almost picture myself in a sophisticated black dress with Kate Middleton hair and people saying, oh, you really pulled it off and girls eying Rob as I stood tall in stilettos with my arm tucked through his… I shook my head at myself. This was not a universe where I would ever have duchess hair.

“You really think so many people would be interested in a black tie thing?”

“I really think so. We’ll get something that’s going to have gorgeous photos, society-paper stuff. Businesses will donate too, they’ll see the pay-off. It’ll be cheaper than your barbecue when you factor that in.” He nodded, as confident about charity as he was about kicking down doors.

“I can’t believe that you want to spend your sick leave planning a fundraiser for cats,” I said. Those gorgeous baby-blues of his widened slightly, and I knew we were skating dangerously close to discussing our random lust for each other.

Even if I didn’t understand why he lusted after me at all.

Or why my sense of self-preservation didn’t win out over the ache between my thighs and the way my hands itched to roam his hard-planed body.

Before he could say anything else, I said, “You just want to show off that you can dance, huh?”

“Can I?” He straightened from the island, drawing himself to his full six-two.

There was still a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, above those cool-water eyes. Despite his workout, he smelled good: earthy and warm with a faint hint of musk. How was that even possible? Rob Delaney's sweat smelled delicious? No wonder I couldn’t concentrate around him.

"That's not something I've ever doubted," I said tartly, belatedly answering his question. "Just like you speak all the romance languages and own a tux, I'm sure you can dance."

He frowned. "No. I wasn't asking, do you think I can really dance? I was asking if I could show off."

He held his non-casted hand out to me. His hands were big and blocky, deeply tanned and ripped with white scars across his knuckles and callouses along the pads of his palm. He had a workman’s hands, a fighter’s hands, but his fingers were long and deft, like a musician’s. I bet he could play my body like he used to play the violin.

He reached into his pocket for his cell phone. Music began to play, a slow but sexy Latin beat.

I had to crack a smile. "You're ridiculous."

"Are you afraid?"

"Of dancing?"

"Mm-hmm."

"I run a business. I rescue very angry cats. And I do your laundry. I'm not scared of much." I slapped my hand into his.

He laughed and pulled me close. Even through my t-shirt, I could feel my nipples rubbing against those built pecs, and the slightest motion made them throb, a throb that traveled straight down to my panties. His t-shirt strained over his broad chest and then fell away over those hard abs. I breathed in his Rob-scent so deeply that my head swam with desire.

I was not going to survive this.

I wiggled my hips back from his, pushing back slightly on his warm shoulder beneath my palm. “Leave a little room for the Holy Ghost, huh, Delaney?”

He smiled slightly.

I cleared my throat. "I've never been interested in dancing."

He rested his forearm lightly against the small of my back. I could feel the warmth of his arm, the cast hard against my skin.

"You're missing out." His voice, always low and sexy, was right in my ear.

"I don't want you to hurt your wrist." Even to my own ears, I sounded plaintive.

“Oh, Naomi.” There was laughter in his voice. He nudged me gently, swaying one hip against mine. “When I take a step forward, you step back with this leg.”

I tried to follow his movement as he pushed gently against me. But I couldn’t concentrate on the salsa when I was all-too-aware of his body and all-too-embarrassed by that fact. When I made a misstep, his arm tightened on my lower back, keeping me close. I felt his hard length through his jeans once when my thigh brushed between his. His body felt so warm and right against mine.

"Step, step, like this," he murmured. I stepped on the edge of his running shoe and almost stumbled, if not for his powerful arm tightening around me. "Can you follow?"

I tried to focus, but within a few minutes, I looked up to find him grinning. "No. No, you can't follow. Why am I not surprised?"

He pushed me away, raising his arm. To spin me? Did people really do that? I hesitated and then twirled under his arm. For a moment, I felt weightless. Girlish.

He reeled me in again close. Our hips met again. Oh, fuck it; I liked it. I liked being so close to him, breathing in his scent, pulled tight into his arms and feeling his body against mine.

He led me seamlessly across the tile. I felt myself begin to smile, energized by the music and his body so near mine. I raised my eyes to his and found him smiling down at me. The way his lips quirked up slightly above that firm jaw, the distinct smile lines around his eyes that gave away his pleasure, made me want to kiss him. I was tempted to drag him down by those powerful shoulders and press my lips against his, to kiss him to the sound of this sexy beat.

He released my hand, and I stumbled with confusion. Right before he tilted my chin up with one finger and leaned in towards me. Those deep blue eyes drifted shut, his long, black lashes resting on chiseled cheekbones.

I put my palm over his lips, faster than thought.

Those eyes opened in a hurry, and I already regretted it as he looked down at me. The smile lines around his eyes were gone now.

I tried to smile. “I know you’re bored. But that’s not what you pay me for.”

The warmth of his arm dropped away. He took a step back from me. Another. His back bumped the big granite island before he crossed his arms over his powerful chest, his jaw set. I felt my stomach tighten.

God, that was a stupid, stupid thing to say. Too late to take it back.

"Did I do something to you? When we were in high school, maybe, since that's the last time we saw each other?" His voice was deceptively casual.

"No. You've never done anything to me." My tone came out hot.

He half-shrugged, his lips quirking mysteriously, as if to say, have it your way, honey. He turned and walked away, toward the deck. "Could you bring me out a cup of coffee when you get the chance? I thought I'd catch up on the news."

I watched him stride away, wishing I could rewind two minutes. Wishing I could just kiss him back this time. His t-shirt clung to his delts with sweat. His long legs with muscular calves, firmly defined under his shorts, betrayed his anger through his quick stride. As irritated and regretful as I felt, watching him me feel another powerful thrum of desire.

He turned to close the French doors between us. I glanced away once his eyes met mine. Those eyes were cool as ice water, and they chilled me; I was already addicted again to the way his eyes lit up when they met mine sometimes.

I still remembered the night Alice betrayed my crush over a family dinner of penne. I had picked at my garlic bread as Dad went off, picking at the Delaney family. Rob had a tall, angular swimmer’s body then, but Dad had called him a pipe cleaner. That had been the best thing Dad had to say about him.

I hadn't tried to defend Rob from Dad's vent that night. It was clear that years of working for the Delaneys made him feel that way. Alice had spent the rest of dinner trying to catch my eye across the dinner table, offering an apologetic smile over the Brussels sprouts.

After that, I didn’t talk about my crush on Rob. Not to my friends, not to my sister. I would raise my eyebrows and play dumb if someone brought him up.

But after our meets, exhausted from the individual medley, I would pretend to fall asleep against his shoulder as the bus droned homeward. He always smelled good back then, too. I would breathe in his scent of soap and aftershave and lingering chlorine until I really did drift off. On those long rides, he let me sleep. He smiled at me when I woke up yawning, those blue eyes crinkling around the edges in a way that made me melt.

But like I said, he never did anything to me.

Except broke my heart. But that was my fault, not his.

I wouldn't make that mistake again.