Maybe by the time he pulled into her cul-de-sac he’d find the strength to make a quick exit.

But he wasn’t betting on it.

10

EVE DIDN’T WANT BRENT to walk her to the door—and walk away. Yes, she had a top-notch security system . . . but after tonight’s scare it would be nice to have company for an hour or two.

One man in particular.

Could she entice him to stay?

As they traversed the dark streets, the silence broken only by the hum of tires against pavement, Eve peeked at the man behind the wheel.

His jaw was hard, his brow furrowed—and his frequent glances in the rearview mirror suggested he was on high alert.

The man oozed confidence and competence.

No wonder she always felt safe in his presence.

And feeling safe was a top priority tonight.

But that’s not the main reason you want him to stay, Eve.

She exhaled. Okay, fine. She could admit the truth. Yes, she liked Brent Lange.

A lot.

But who wouldn’t? What was not to like? The man was smart, conscientious, reeked of integrity, had a solid reputation among his peers—and was one hunk of handsome, appealing masculinity.

The latter attribute was on full display tonight, thanks to a snug T-shirt that showed off his broad chest and impressive biceps, plus a pair of broken-in jeans that hugged his lean hips and muscular legs.

No wonder her already elevated adrenaline had gone off the charts when he’d stepped out of his Taurus in the parking lot.

She shifted in the seat and tugged at the neckline of her suddenly too-tight mock turtleneck.

Cate’s intel suggested Brent didn’t have any steady female companionship—and the fact he’d been reading on a typical date night appeared to support that conclusion.

That didn’t mean he’d be interested in getting to know her, however. Hadn’t he turned down her last offer to stay awhile on the night she’d found the fake bomb?

But what did she have to lose by trying again?

“Home sweet home.” He pulled into her cul-de-sac and guided the car toward her house.

It was now or never.

Taking a deep breath, she strove for a nonchalant tone. “I know it’s getting late—and you have your book waiting for you—but can I offer you a drink? And maybe dessert? I don’t make killer baklava like Grace does, but my carrot cake is a family favorite.”

Thank goodness her restlessness had compelled her to whip one up today in between stages of working on the floor, or all she would have been able to offer was yogurt.

A dessert unlikely to persuade anyone to hang around.

The seconds dragged by as he swung into her driveway and set the brake.

Message received.

Inviting him in had been a bad idea.