Page 52 of His Forgotten Colton Fiancee

Now his grin widened. “I like thesound of that.”

How many times had she told him that in the past few weeks? And then they’d ended in bed, tangling together in the sheets, the food and liquor forgotten?

Quinn’s smile faded. She tilted her head and frowned. “Did I actually say that? Is that something I’ve said before?”

Whoa, this was new turf. West set down the beer. “You have. It’ll come back to you.”

Becauseshe looked so woebegone and lost, he didn’t pursue it. Here he’d been so worried about forging new connections with her, and she must feel as uncertain and uncomfortable as a teenager at her first dance.

“I am hungry,” he told her. “Your dinner smells delicious, but you don’t have to wait for me to come home, or feed me, Quinn.”

Coming closer, she rested her palm upon his chest, over hisheart. “Yes, I do. Someone has to take care of you to make sure your arteries don’t harden to concrete before you’re forty.”

His gaze remained steady, though his heart pounded a little harder. Quinn always had the ability to throw him off guard, make him feel alive and aware.

And sexually responsive. West stepped back a pace. It was warm in there, and not only from the heat generated bythe stove.Easy. Now is not the time to kiss her, follow up on your feelings. Let her set the pace.

“I’ll go wash up,” he muttered.

When he returned to the kitchen—his gun locked in the case he’d brought over, his hair damp from a quick scrubbing—West wore clean chinos, a green polo shirt and socks with hamburgers all over them. Maybe the socks would nudge her into remembering.

Butshe didn’t even glance at his feet, only bustled around the kitchen to bring the food to the table. He tried to help, and she shooed him away.

As they sat, he forked a generous portion of her linguini, added some meatballs. “This is special. Thank you. But don’t feel like you have to wait on me, Quinn. I work late and I would rather have you rest and recover.”

She spun linguini aroundon her fork. “I needed to make dinner, West. I need to feel useful again, not like an invalid.”

“You’re not an invalid, honey.” He sipped some cold beer. “You’re recovering.”

“I did manage to make dessert, too. I was downstairs, baking a cake, trying to get back to some kind of routine in hopes it jogged my memory.” She sighed. “I didn’t remember much.”

Something was different abouther. West dug into his meal with gusto, talking about Red Ridge, the cops on the force, the funny story he’d heard about her father’s bar. He talked more than he had all day.

And yet that damnable blank look still rested on her face, as if he’d chattered on about a city that she’d never visited and people she’d never met.

Her own father. Well, Rusty Colton was a loser. Not worth rememberinghim. But right now, he’d even settle for Quinn recalling Rusty.

West set down his fork, realizing what was wrong with Quinn’s expression. “What did you do to your face?”

She touched her cheek. “It’s makeup.”

Suppressing a groan, he gave her a level look. “Remove it.”

She bristled. “Why? It’s my face.”

Okay, the old Quinn had returned. West got up, bent down by her chair, cuppingher cheek with one hand. “Don’t cover up your freckles. They’re gorgeous.”

“And I’m ugly. The cuts—”

“Will heal. And the bruises.” He stroked a thumb over her cheek gently. “You never wore makeup before. All natural. It’s what drew me to you. Why now?”

As he listened to her talk about Valeria’s visit and reaction to seeing Quinn, he felt his anger rise.

West returned to his seat,drank more beer. Hell, the way this night was going, he might just need all six bottles, even though he seldom drank more than one a night, even on weekends.

Getting drunk meant lowering his guard, losing control.

Losing control meant something could slip past him, hurt those he loved.