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Riley’s mother waved this away. “He’ll drink it. He’s always been more flexible with international drink than international eats.”
“What are we talking about here?” Riley asked, desperate for a topic to distract her from thinking about Sam in bed. With other women. Between her mother’s presence and his mentioning other bedmates, now didn’t quite seem the right time to ask if she could see him naked and then write about it.
“Margaritas, baby,” Sam said, coming up alongside her, resting his forearms on the counter and leaning in to see the dinner spread. If he noticed the potatoes, he didn’t say a word.
“Margaritas?” Riley said. “Holy crap, Ma, you’re going all out.”
Erin gave a smug little smile and jerked her chin in the direction of the driveway. “Go help Sam get the stuff. You two can mix a pitcher.”
“I’m sure a big strong man like Sam can carry a little tequila bottle by himself,” Riley said, giving him a cartoon flutter of her lashes.
He fluttered right back. “Yes, but then there’s the Cointreau and the coarse salt, and the limes that went rogue all over the back of my truck. Maybe you can just tuck those between your limes to keep shit perky …”
Riley looked at her mother and pointed at Sam. “Ma, you hearing this?”
“Do I hear my son’s best friend talking about my daughter’s breasts? No, I do not. But I could use a drink all the same, so hurry along now.”
“These are bigger than limes,” Riley muttered as she slid reluctantly from the stool and checked out her boobs. He didn’t bother to respond. Wasn’t even interested.
She trailed after Sam toward his truck. One didn’t need a car in the Brooklyn neighborhood where they’d grown up. She and Sam had both lived close enough to the F and G subway line that there was no need.
But a couple of years earlier, after Sam had decided that corporate life wasn’t for him, he’d gone and bought himself a distillery up in Greenpoint. Which meant that there was always a barrel of whisky riding around as Sam’s companion.
She just wished it was his only companion. Riley picked up a pale pink cardigan off the bench seat of the truck. “Doesn’t this make you look sallow?”
“Angela’s,” he said by way of response. “Get the limes and quit snooping.”
Riley sighed and began retrieving the limes that had rolled every which way in the truck. But only because she really, really needed that margarita. ?
?You know, at the grocery store, they often have these clear plastic things … what are they called … oh right, bags. I’m not sure, but I think you can put fruit in there to avoid adventures like these.”
He grabbed at a lime that was under her hip, wrestling it free and tossing it in front of her face before snatching it and giving her a quick grin. “And who’d want to avoid adventures like these?”
Riley’s breath caught just a little when they made eye contact. It was ridiculous, really. She’d seen his face a million times over the years, and it never, ever got old. Never failed to elicit that usual combination of fondness and frustration and something that might have been horniness, if Riley knew what that felt like.
Not that she was the only woman to get horny from the likes of Sam Compton. It was almost a shame that he’d decided his passion was mashing grains for whisky, because he looked like one of the actors who would get cast as “the good-looking guy” in every possible movie genre.
With blond hair and blue eyes, Sam could have been a run-of-the-mill guy next door, but the genetics lottery had been kind enough to get everything just right. His eyes were such a light shade of blue that they had a sort of chronic piercing effect, made even sexier because they were framed by a set of some seriously killer lashes. And his hair was that ideal shade of golden blond with just enough wave to be, well … sexy as hell.
And the body … oh, the body.
Sam had the lean, muscled build of a man who was used to using his body. Which she supposed made sense. He’d gone straight from the football field to a freaking triathlon on a dare from Riley’s brother. And she didn’t really have a clue what he did to keep in shape these days, but he did something, because his biceps were definitely straining the fabric of those tight T-shirts he wore everywhere, and the jeans revealed nothing but sheer man-butt perfection.
“You checkin’ me out, Ri?”
“You know, I was? Just trying to figure out who caused those wrinkles around your eyes.”
“Well, you know what they say about aging. Men get distinguished and women just get old.”
She snatched the lime out of his hand even though she didn’t know how she was going to carry the ones she’d already gathered. “You’d better invest in some eye cream. Nurse Angela’s not going to like you going all old-man on her.”
“Nurse Angela didn’t go paying much attention to my eyes, if you know what I mean.”
“No, Compton. I have no idea what you mean by that blatant sexual reference,” she snapped, sliding out of the truck with the limes cradled against her chest. One fell to the ground, but since picking it up would mean dropping the rest of them, she left it.
“Hey, I figured you like it blunt,” he called after her, grabbing the rest of the ingredients and coming around the truck. “You’re the one who makes a living off of selling sex.”
Riley’s head snapped back in surprise. “What did you just say?”
