Harlequin Romantic Suspense April 2021 Karen Whiddon (best fiction books to read TXT) 📖

the kitchen for another plate, syrup and something to drink. Before she could head back, her cell phone rang. Scooping it up from the counter, Connie glanced at the screen and couldn’t hold back the smile that broke free.

Trace.

“I’m a wuss,” Connie muttered to herself.

She had vowed not to call him, even though he’d told her she could. And now he was calling her. She was also determined not to fall for his charm, but who was she kidding? She was crazy about the guy.

We are just friends. Nothing else, she reminded herself.

“Hello?” Connie finally answered, but the call had dropped. She hit Redial.

“Screening your calls?” Trace’s deep voice boomed through the phone, sending a delicious tingle to the soles of her feet.

“Nope, I wasn’t. I didn’t get to the phone in time. What can I do for you, Mr. Halstead?”

“Just calling to see how you’re doing.”

“I’m—I’m all right. I have moments when my mind takes me back to the bank. I’m sure that’ll probably be the case for a couple of days, but I’ll be fine.” Seemed like she’d said that a thousand times in the last ten hours.

“What are you doing?”

Connie strolled back into the living room and sat on the sofa. “I’m getting ready to have dinner.”

“What are you having?”

She wanted to say that she was having blackened salmon or a T-bone steak or something equally exciting. Then again, she couldn’t wait to dive into what she had prepared. Her stomach even growled in anticipation.

“I’m having breakfast for dinner.” She gave him a rundown of her feast, adding a few adjectives to make it sound like a five-star meal.

Trace chuckled. “Melt-in-your-mouth French toast? Seriously? I’m gonna need to try that. Want some company?” he asked at the same time the doorbell rang.

Connie bolted out of her seat. “That depends.” She glanced down at her lounging pajamas. The pink shorts set was cute, but maybe not exactly the best outfit for male company. Especially a man that she was seriously attracted to.

“Depends on what?” Trace asked, humor in his voice.

Connie made a mad dash down the short hallway to her bedroom and tried not to breathe hard. No sense in letting on that she was running to do a quick change.

“It depends on whether that’s you ringing my doorbell. But I doubt you’d show up without calling first,” she teased.

Moving the cell phone back and forth from one ear to the other while she quickly undressed, Connie tried to do it without sounding out of breath. Within seconds, she had stripped out of the shorts and into yoga pants and an oversize T-shirt.

“Well, if I was at your door, would you let me in?”

“Maybe.” She glanced in the hallway mirror. Her curly hair was piled on top of her head with a hair clip. A few long tendrils had slipped out and framed her face. She looked carefree, like she wasn’t trying hard.

Perfect.

“What if I told you that I had a surprise for you?” Trace asked.

Connie headed to the front of the house, grinning so hard her cheeks ached. Considering they were just friends, she shouldn’t be filled with so much giddiness and joy. Yet that was exactly how she felt.

“I’d say I love surprises.” She looked through the peephole, then opened the door and disconnected the call. “I have to see the surprise before I’ll agree to let you in.”

Her gaze traveled the length of Trace, whose imposing size—he was over six feet tall and two-hundred-plus pounds—filled the doorway. He had shed his suit and now sported a white T-shirt that stretched across his wide chest and molded over his large biceps and flat abs. Dark blue jeans covered his legs and emphasized his tree-trunk-like thighs.

She had to stop herself from licking her lips. Her gaze made it back to his handsome face, and that cocky grin that she adored was in full force. Clearly, he knew she liked what she saw. Just having him in her presence was a welcome surprise, but then she noticed the plastic container in his right hand.

“Are those what I think they are?” she asked, her mouth watering in anticipation. It was as if she could already taste the dark chocolate melting on her tongue.

“If you think they are my famous to-die-for cookies, you would be right.”

“Oh, my.” His chocolate-chip cookies with oatmeal, coconut and walnuts were everything. Connie opened the door wider and moved aside so he could enter. “Please come in.”

Trace laughed as he stepped across the threshold. “I figured these would get me inside. I also brought my famous hot chocolate.” He held up a metal thermos.

Connie closed the door. “You do realize that it’s still eighty degrees outside, right?”

“I do, but I figured you’d have the air conditioner blasting. Besides, my hot chocolate is amazing any time of the year, especially since it contains a special ingredient.” Trace strolled farther into the house, as if he owned the place, and headed to the kitchen.

“What’s the special ingredient?”

He rinsed his hands in the sink and opened a couple of cabinet doors before he found the one that contained her mugs. “Whiskey.”

“Hmm, sounds interesting. There’s only one problem with your surprise.”

He filled both mugs and glanced up at her. “What’s that?”

“There’s no way I can have French toast, cookies and hot chocolate. Too much sugar. I’ll be bouncing off the walls like a two-year-old.”

“I see.”

Trace glanced in the living room, where she had set up her dinner. With the partially open floor plan, he had a slight view of the cocktail table in front of the sofa.

“Well, how about I help you eat the French toast and other fixings? Then you can have a cookie and maybe save the not-so-hot chocolate for when you get ready to go to bed. I guarantee it’ll help you have a good night’s sleep.”

Connie wanted to tell him that if he stayed the night and shared her bed, she’d have a great night’s sleep. But she kept that thought to herself. No sense