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“My pleasure. No doubt you’ll have another bestseller on your hands.” I keep my hand on my face so I don’t reach for her. “I don’t think you’re prepared for just how big this is going to be, E.”
She smiles, her dark eyes lighting up with mischief. “That’s what she said.”
A bark of laughter escapes my lips. The fullness in my chest spreads to my skin. Gathers between my legs, taking on an edge of urgency.
Fuck. This girl.
“So, no pressure,” she says, glancing over my shoulder. “But it looks like your parents took Bryce home? If that’s the case, I’d love to take you out. Maybe buy you a drink. My way of saying thanks for everything you’ve done for me. I have no idea where you found the time to put this whole thing together. But I really appreciate it. You taking care of all these details allowed me to really focus on the food, which was a huge help.”
I shouldn’t. Really, really shouldn’t.
I should go home. Take advantage of a rare night alone by doing a couple loads of laundry and going to bed early. I can sleep in. Workout in the morning, maybe grocery shop in blessed solitude. I love a lot of things about being a dad, but doing the week’s grocery run with a four-year-old in tow is not one of them.
I should.
But what I want?
I want to take Eva home. I want her in my bed. I want to stay up all night exploring every inch of her body. I want to fuck her so well and so much we’ll both be sore for days.
Then yeah. I’d love to take her out for a long, lazy breakfast. Maybe with mimosas. When was the last time I got a buzz on in the morning?
When was the last time I had the house to myself? No alarm clock, no kid, nowhere to be?
Still. It’s a bad call. On many levels. I have too much to do to prep for a crazy busy work week coming up. And I know, somewhere in the swirl of my thoughts, that I’m gonna catch bigger and bigger feelings if I take Eva home and get her naked.
I’m diving into the deep end every time I see her. Over and over again.
Eventually I’m going to drown.
But I can’t seem to stop. I feel myself giving in even as my rational mind condemns my decision. I always do what I should do. And I’m tired of always being responsible. I’m tired of living to check shit off my to-do list.
I want to keep enjoying the weekend. Enjoy Eva’s company. Indulge in her wild for as long as she’ll let me, because I know how rare it is.
I spear a hand through my hair. Is this what insanity feels like? Making a choice even though you’re pretty sure it’s going to absolutely crush you?
“How about you make me a drink instead?” I don’t recognize my voice. “At my place.”
Eva’s gaze locks on mine. Steady. Sure.
“You have whiskey?”
I cross my arms, shooting her an are-you-serious look.
Her teeth come down on her bottom lip. “All right then.”
I reach out. Drag my thumb across that lip, releasing it from her teeth. It feels soft and full. Hot.
The simmer inside my skin ignites into a full blown fire.
Alex passes by us, a stack of neatly folded table cloths tucked underneath one arm.
“So…” she says. “Yeah. Gonna assume y’all are riding home together?”
“Uh-huh,” Eva replies absently, eyes still locked on mine. “See you later, Alex.”
“Right. I’ll get gone.”
Going home with Eva is not a sound decision by any stretch of the imagination.
But the feel of her skin against my palm as I wrap my hand around the nape of her neck? That feels right.
Listening to Dave Matthews Band on the ride back to my place, that hand on Eva’s bare thigh, feels really fucking right.Chapter TwentyFordSeeing Eva work her culinary magic in my kitchen is the best kind of mind fuck there is.
I’m sitting on a stool at the island—my God does it feel good to be the one sitting for a change—while Eva stands across from me, cocktail shaker held in both hands over her shoulder. The muscles in her arms work as she gives it a solid shake. Bringing it down, she opens it with a solid crack. She pours a foamy, golden liquid into two crystal glasses over ice, the smoky-sweet scent of whiskey blooming between us.
It’s adult and sexy and I want it in my kitchen every Saturday night. Considering the last beverage I served up was lukewarm apple juice this morning, a handcrafted cocktail is a treat.
“My version of a whiskey sour,” she explains, sliding a glass my way. “You get that nice tart note from the lemon and lime, a little sweetness from the simple syrup, and then the foam from the egg white.” She brings her glass to her lips for a sip. “What do you think?”
