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She had to stop and take a moment. She glanced in the mirror, noting the pink cheeks and shiny eyes. The butterflies in her stomach were something else, and as her phone pinged for what had to be the tenth time since she’d been up here, the damn butterflies decided to have a party all over again, making her nauseous.
“Leave me alone,” she muttered, grabbing her phone off of Matt’s bed. Two voicemails from Tucker, and one from her mother. She’d deal with them later.
Grace tossed the phone back into her bag and smoothed the front of her fitted, white Calvin Klein button shirt. A favorite, it dressed up her faded, comfy jeans—and paired with a wide leather belt and black combat boots, her look had a bit of edge.
She’d left her hair in long, loose, waves, but had taken some extra time with her makeup. A bit of dark gray shadow and liner made her eyes pop, and she dug out a favorite soft pink gloss for her lips. She applied a few squirts from her body spray and she was good to go.
By the time she made it to the kitchen, it was alive with some incredible smells and Grace was impressed.
Matt had music playing softly, an old classic by Lynard Skynard, and she hummed along to it as she made her way over to the island. A glass of red wine had been poured, and Grace slid onto one of the barstools, content to just watch Matt at work.
Was there anything sexier than a man in the kitchen?
Matt glanced over to her and smiled, though it slowly faded as she held his gaze—as she licked her lips suggestively—and took a sip of wine. In that moment she glimpsed the real, unfiltered, Matt Hawkins—there was no barrier, no mask to hide his feelings.
He wanted her and she wanted him. The man literally took her breath away.
She couldn’t speak if she wanted to and held the glass aloft, her fingers circling the rim as Skynard continued to sing about a Simple Kind of Man.
When she thought she could manage it she asked Matt what he was cooking. His answer surprised her and added yet another layer to the most complex man she’d ever met.
“I’ve got two steaks on the grill out back, just searing bacon wrapped scallops right now and we’ve got baked potato and a garden salad to go with it.”
Wow. Just. Wow. Grace slid from her seat and walked over to him so that she could see what he was doing. She stood an inch or so behind him, fighting the urge to slip her arms through his, and peered around Matt into the skillet.
“What are you cooking the scallops in?”
“Butter and garlic.”
“They smell amazing,” she murmured, though her eyes weren’t on the scallops—they were on the play of muscles across his back as he cooked the shellfish. “How on earth did you learn to cook like this?”
“When you’re on your own at sixteen, you’d be surprised at the skills you pick up in order to survive.”
Sixteen? Alone? Grace didn’t know how to reply to that and thankfully, Matt rescued her.
“You could maybe set the table?”
“Sure.” Glad to have something to do, Grace set her glass down and spent the next five minutes getting two place settings ready. By the time she was done, Matt was fetching the steaks from outside and she grabbed the potatoes from the oven. She filled his wine glass, did the same for herself and then the two of them sat down to eat.
They made small talk and eventually Grace relaxed. They covered the likes of Dory—who’d made it to Florida. Rosie—who should get her casts off in a few weeks. And Betty Jo—yes, Matt had known her since he was a teenager.
Matt Hawkins was intelligent, funny, smart and loyal. And those qualities didn’t begin to scratch the surface.
There were a lot of long lingering looks and the air was heavy, filled with sexual tension and something that was stronger. It was the something stronger that was scary and maybe it was the wine that made Grace ask the question, but in the end it didn’t matter. The words just fell out.
She was hot, on edge and totally and unequivocally one hundred and fifty percent into the man across the table from her. She set her wine glass down on the table and pushed her plate away.
“Do you feel this? This thing between us?”
Matt sat back in his chair, his dark eyes glittering in that way that told her he was just as worked up as she was. His chest rose and fell, a little faster than normal, and her gaze dropped to his long, masculine fingers as they caressed the stem of his glass.
She wanted those hands on her body. Right now.
“I do,” he replied, his voice a little rough and hesitant.
Her gaze shot back to his and her heart jumped at the unrestricted look of want and need in their depths. Her breathing quickened and thank goodness the table hid how desperately she squeezed her legs together, hoping to alleviate the ache deep inside her sex.
Somewhere in the house a phone rang, it’s shrill alarm cutting through their silence but not their need. Grace continued to watch Matt, even as Betty’s voice rang out.
