Page 44 of Serving Bunt

Tomorrow’s final challenge was worth the most points, and the theme was “home for the holidays,” a full centerpiece dessert that was supposed to represent what the holidays meant to each team.

I glanced sideways at Diaz as he wiped down the counter, humming under his breath again. He looked relaxed, that easy smile playing on his lips like second place was a victory in itself.

And damn, if he didn’t look good doing it.

I’d seen him naked a hundred times in the locker room. Hell, just this morning, I’d woken up to his hard cock nestled against my ass. And yet somehow, in that rumpled T-shirt, with a sheen of sweat and powdered sugar dusting one of his cheeks . . .

It caught me off guard how much I wanted to reach over and brush off his cheek. How much I wanted to crowd him against the counter and see if he’d still smile at me like that when I kissed him stupid.

I looked away fast, busying my hands with a perfectly clean bowl.

Get it together, Miller.

I had just finished washing my hands when Mila sauntered over, not a hair or butterfly clip out of place.

“Feel like keeping the party going, boys?” She arched one of those immaculately drawn-on eyebrows.

Personally, I felt like rubbing one out and crawling into bed before nine, but I wasn’t about to tell her that.

“What kind of party?”

“The rest of us are heading to a little bar just outside of town. Drink specials, salsa dancing—”

“Yes,” Diaz said before I could even open my mouth to politely decline.

I blinked at him. “I didn’t say yes.”

“You didn’t say no either,” he shot back before turning that full-wattage smile on Mila. “What time, mami?”

“Nine o’clock. Don’t be late. Dress code is ASAP.”

“ASAP?” I asked.

“As slutty as possible,” they said in unison.

She gave us a little finger wave and wandered off toward her brother. As soon as she was out of earshot, Diaz tilted his head, giving me the full puppy-dog treatment. “Matty—”

“No.”

“One night,” he begged. “And I’ll be by your side the entire time.”

“No.”

“Okay, fine. If you want room to mingle—”

“Peter.”

“Tesoro.”

Heat crawled up my neck. I exhaled through my nose, already knowing I was going to lose this battle.

“What if I don’t know how to salsa dance?”

“Don’t worry,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, coaxing register that always got him whatever he wanted. His eyes flicked down to my mouth for half a second before returning to mine. “I’m an excellent teacher.”

Damn him and that devilish grin.

“Fine,” I muttered. “But I’m not dressing slutty.”