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Wes grinned. “Rib eyes, grilled corn, baked potatoes and grilled onions and peppers. Sound good?”
“Sounds perfect. You went all out tonight.”
“Just a little something I threw together.” He smiled. “Can I get you a beer or a glass of wine?”
“Red or white?”
“Pink.” A wide smile spread across his face. “Sampled a great wine at the grocery store today that’ll complement the steak nicely. It’s chilling in the fridge now.”
“I’ll take the wine with dinner.” If she was going to be alone with Wesley Adams for the next hour, she’d better do it mostly sober. “Can I help with anything?”
The buzzer sounded in the kitchen. “Potatoes are done. Can you take them out of the oven and plate them? Oven mitts and plates are on the counter.”
She slipped inside the kitchen and did as he asked, glad to put space between them.
* * *
Bree’s eyes twinkled with an excitement she seemed eager to hide as she surveyed her carefully loaded plate. She picked up her utensils. “Everything smells so good.”
“Tastes even better. Dig in. Don’t be shy.” He couldn’t peel his gaze from her face long enough to carve his own steak, afraid to miss her reaction.
Bree took a bite. An appreciative moan signaled her approval. The deeply erotic, guttural sound triggered an involuntary twitch below his belt. “This is probably the best steak I’ve ever had. Where’d you learn to cook like this?”
“My mom is an amazing cook. Taught me everything I know.” He took a bite of the steak. It was tender and succulent. Seasoned to perfection. His mother would be proud.
“It’s good she taught you to be self-sufficient. It’s no picnic being with someone who isn’t.” Her brows knitted, as if a bad memory flashed through her brain.
“Something you know from experience, I gather.” Wes sipped of his beer. He didn’t want to delve deeper into her obvious pain. Yet a part of him was curious.
Bree took a generous gulp from her wineglass. “It was a long time ago.”
He took the hint and changed the subject. “So how’s Rebecca’s shoulder? I read somewhere she’d be sidelined for at least four months.”
“Could be a little longer. She’s going stir-crazy, but her physical therapy is coming along.”
“Good.” He put butter and sour cream on his potato. “Dealing with an injury can be tough. Especially late in an athlete’s career.”
“Were you a soccer player, like Liam?” She dug in to her potato, already smothered in butter and sour cream.
“No, rugby was my sport.”
“Amateur or professional?”
“I played at university, then on a lower tier regional league. Definitely wasn’t in it for the money.” He took another swig of his beer.
“Is rugby as rough as they say?”
“Worse. Got half a dozen injuries to prove it.”
“Were you hurt badly?”
Wes winced inwardly at the memory of his last injury, but shrugged nonchalantly. “Sprains and broken bones. Typical injuries in a high-contact sport.”
“Is that why you quit?” She took another sip of her wine, her expressive brown eyes trained on him.
“Never really had a passion for the game. It was something to do in university and I was good at it. Mostly, it was a great way to blow off steam.”
“Let me guess, you were the misunderstood rebel type.” She speared a piece of steak and pointed her fork at him, then put the morsel in her mouth. His eyes followed the motion. He envied that morsel of beef as she savored it, her full lips pursed as she chewed.
“What gave it away?” He chuckled as she eyed the tattoo sleeve on his right arm, part of a large tribal tattoo that also encompassed the right side of his chest and back. “I didn’t consider myself a rebel. Too cliché. On the surface, I was a pretty affable guy. Had a lot of anger pent up inside. Rugby seemed like the best way to release it.”
Wes cut into his steak and took another bite, chastising himself. He’d invited Bree to dinner to repair the damage he’d caused and build a working relationship. Not to tell her his entire life story.
