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“Thanks. All natur-al,” she says, giving her locks a bounce and shaking her head from side to side. It’s so damn cute I have to look away before I touch her. I find the match stored with all the other recorded junk on the DVR. I explain the fighters and their backgrounds a bit as the announcers try to hype it up for viewers. The fighters both trash-talk in interviews, but I fast-forward until we see the MMA ring. Music blares and I casually peek over at Lyla. She’s still not smiling, but I see a glimmer in her eye that tells me she’s interested. The fight starts and the fighters full-on attack each other. The man set to win the match is the first one to the ground but recovers quickly and knees the other guy in ribs then comes up with a hook right to the other’s face. The camera is angled perfect, and we see blood splatter across the white floor of the ring.
“Daaaaamn,” Lyla coos from beside me, clearly entertained.
The match goes on and it’s brutal. At one-point Lyla stands and cheers on the bloodbath. Rooting for the underdog, Caleb Holland, she screams for blood and murder, and I think I should be scared but can’t help laughing my ass off. He still loses the first match but ends up the overall winner in the end. She dances around and I can’t help but join her. I have never enjoyed a match so much.
“You got some sweet moves there, Cole,” she jokes with a flirty smile.
“Thanks,” I say, still laughing and dancing with her. “My fist pumping skills have never let me down.”
She laughs all the way to the kitchen. “Well, a million years later, it’s done.”
The smell of pie fills the living room, and I walk over to join her. Hopping on the leather bar stool, I get a good look at what she made. “Is this a casserole?”
Rolling her eyes, she says, “Kind of. Just try it. It should be cooled off by now too; I took it out fifteen minutes ago. Did I spot vanilla ice cream in the freezer?”
“You did, and I like the way you think. I’ll grab the plates.”
She plates it all in some fancy way. Even adding some sort of sauce she made.
“This looks and smells amazing, Lyla. Thank you.”
“You bet. I told you I came with benefits.” She winks, and I wonder if she’s fucking with me.
I wish I could repay her for the kindness. Show her all the benefits I come with. Spread her sexy tan legs out and taste her. I bet she tastes sweet like honey.
Stop it.I shake my head, trying to clear the image but it’s too late. When I look up, she’s staring at me with the side of her lower lip between her teeth. Our eyes are locked on each other; I clench my jaw and adjust my cock, not bothering to hide her effect on me. Her face breaks into a full smile, and she looks down my body. I feel it like a trail of fire warming me from the inside.
“What the hell are you two doing in here this early in the morning?” Marcus grumbles, rubbing his eyes.
“Just feeding your boy here. He showed me the fine art of MMA fighting. I’m totally hooked now, by the way.” She smiles over at me.
I’m in the same room as her lifelong best friend, and I got that smile directed at me. Why that’s a big deal I don’t know. I’ve never felt like this before. I shouldn’t feel like this and really don’t even want to, but it’s Lyla, not some clingy one-night stand—not Whitney, this is Lyla. The definition of different. As though he can read my thoughts, Marcus clears his throat, directly looking at me. Did he ask me something?
“What’s up?”
“Nothing. Whatever you two are doing, stop and go to bed.” He points between her body and mine. “I was at the studio until one and I’m fucking beat.” He turns and walks back to the hall and up the stairs to his room, assuming I got the message.
“More for us,” Lyla whispers and hands me the decorated dish.
“Wow, this looks too good to eat. You really are some fancy chef, aren’t you?” I say, instantly regretting my choice of words. I wince and look over at her. She doesn’t say anything, just moves the fork around the plate. Fuck, I’m such an idiot. Why did I say that? What do I say now?
“Do you like it?” She answers with a counter question.
Stuffing my mouth with the sugary goodness, I just nod and shovel in more. She seems to relax and takes a small bite from her fork and moans. Her eyes fly open, and her head starts to bob up and down in rhythm with mine. We stare at each other, content with our mouths full and in complete agreement that her desert is amazing.
“If nothing else, it’s good to know I can still make edible food.”
“Delicious weed edibles to be exact,” I joke, trying to steer us away from what I know she won’t want to talk about.
“I guess you’re right,” she says, covering her mouth with a bite still inside and giggling even though I can tell she’s trying not to.
When our plates are empty, I pick them both up and round the island to stick them in the dishwasher and look on the shelf at our drink choices.
“Want some whiskey?”
“Honey and whiskey?” She smiles like it’s the best idea ever. “Hell yeah.”
I pour it and hand her a tumbler, then sit down next to her with one of my own. “Do you feel anything from the butter yet?” she asks after a few sips.
