Undeterred by the setback, he rummaged around in the pantry and pulled out a bunch of outdoor gear—three small metal camping stoves, lightweight pots, fuel canisters, half a dozen emergency candles, a lantern, and a box of matches.
I lit everything up and arranged the candles on the table and countertop, then watched as Hawke transferred the Alfredo into two smaller pots, hooked up the stoves to the fuel, and set the flames to simmer. He dumped the mushrooms into a third pot and instructed me to keep stirring while he added fresh spinach, a handful at a time.
“Wow.” I was beyond impressed. If this had happened at my place, we’d be going for takeout. “So you’re one of those nutjob preppers, obviously.”
Hawke scoffed. “Nothing wrong with being prepared for an emergency.”
“Says the man who let his generator die in the middle of winter.”
“Oh, that’s pretty rich,” he teased, “coming from a girl who treks through the high country dressed like Santa’s little hooker.”
“Oh my god, rude!” I smacked his arm, letting my hand linger. His thick muscles undulated beneath my fingertips.
Hawke caught my gaze and held it, those flint-gray eyes sparking dangerously in the candlelight. Heat pooled low in my belly, just waiting for him to make a move—to turn that one little spark into a raging inferno, burning my earlier reservations to ash.
Do it. Just kiss me. Drop everything else and kiss me, right now, before I spontaneously combust…
“We… better sit down,” he finally said, his deep, gruff voice intimate in the soft light. “Dinner’s ready, and Alfredo’s no good when it’s cold.”
Nodding, I removed my hand and reclaimed my seat at the table, and the moment between us passed, leaving a still-simmering tension in the air that did nothing to cool my rapidly overheating insides.
“Sorry there ain’t a fancy dish in the shape of atree,” Hawke said, rolling his eyes, “but hopefully the food still tastes good.”
He put everything into serving bowls and loaded up the table with a feast fit for kings and queens. Tree dish or not, I was starving and beyond grateful. I couldn’t wait to dive in.
From an unlabeled bottle on the counter, Hawke poured himself a glass of dark, amber liquid, then said, “You good with water and coffee, or do you want something that’ll put a little hair on your chest?”
“I don’t need hair on my chest. And I thought you weren’t keen on sharing that whiskey, anyway?”
“Not usually, but hey. It’s Christmas, we’re about to enjoy a home-cooked meal, and you’re wearing a shirt covered in gingerbread cookies. I’ll make an exception.”
My cheeks heated under his gaze. “Thanks anyway, but I’m good. I don’t drink.”
“Ever?” Hawke raised an eyebrow, but I wasn’t in the mood to elaborate.
“This looks incredible, Hawke. Seriously.” I reached for the beet salad and spooned a pile of it onto my plate. “Thank you.”
“Yeah, well.” Bringing his bottle and glass to the table, Hawke sat down across from me and shrugged. “Gotta eat, right? Don’t get sentimental on me.”
“Oh, I won’t get sentimental on you. I won’t even get sentimentalnearyou. I hear sentimentality is highly contagious.”
Hawke tried to shoot me a tough-guy glare, but he couldn’t keep a straight face. Pointing at me with his fork, he said, “Just pass me that salad and don’t get cute. Well, anymorecute.”
“No sentimentality. No cuteness. Hmm. I’m going to need a list to keep all your rules straight.”
His grin widened, his eyes sparkling with dark mischief. The kind that had me thinking those wicked, red-hot thoughts all over again—thoughts Ireallyhoped he couldn’t read.
“Or,” he said, his voice turning as dark as his eyes, “you couldbreakall my rules and deal with the punishment.”
