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“The drink.” She laughs at me. “There’s a reason it’s called that. If you’re not careful, I’ll get you plowed.”
I’d rather be the one doing the plowing, but I digress… “You’re on. What’s in this drink?”
“Rum, vodka, four flavors of liqueur, a few fruit juices, along with some sweet-and-sour mix. It goes down smooth like a punch because it’s loaded with sugar, but it packs a hell of a wallop. It will sneak up and set you on your ass.”
After the last few months of malaise, an evening with strong booze and an even stronger woman sounds fantastic.
“I don’t know… Is that some fruity girls’ drink?” I can’t resist teasing her.
“They all say that—at first. Come with me.”
She heads to the kitchen, which I hadn’t even been able to find on my first pass through the enormous house. I didn’t realize how big over eight thousand square feet really was until I roamed the joint. Trace will come visit me now and then. But otherwise, what am I alone going to do with this much house?
Another problem for another day.
Right now, I far prefer to focus on Harlow’s fine ass, swaying gently from side to side as she leads the way toward the heavenly scent of slow-roasting meat and potatoes.
“That smells so good. And you eat that?” I nod at the Crock-Pot once we reach the kitchen.
“You don’t?”
“I love it.” And it isn’t as if I have to maintain the strict chicken-and-rice diet I did during my pro quarterbacking days. I can splurge every so often now. “Most women I know are too busy watching their figures.”
She snorted. “I may be carrying a few extra pounds but if I have to choose between being a bag of bones and eating hearty, I’m totally picking food. Separate me from cupcakes, and we’ll have a real problem.”
I laugh. Nothing about this woman is artificial. Not her hair, her nails, her breasts, or even her glow. Certainly not her personality.
I can’t remember finding my last five girlfriends put together half this amusing.
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Mix me a drink, woman. Some booze and beef is just what I need.”
Harlow has an easy way in the kitchen. It’s not organized or neat, but somehow she makes a few homemade biscuits, which are ready at the same time the roast and veggies come out—all while mixing the drinks. We talk. And we laugh. My own mother hasn’t directed me to set the table since I was maybe twelve, but Harlow does it with a snap of her fingers and without missing a beat.
I’m still smiling as I sit to eat. She presses a few buttons on her phone and some old-school Nirvana roars through built-in speakers. It’s like she’s speaking my language.
Then I take my first bite of the roast and moan.
“Good?”
“Amazing.” I sip the drink. Like she warned, it’s sweet but not syrupy or cavity-inducing. I gulp down half of it in a few long swallows. “So is the booze. You’re gorgeous and have good taste in music. You know, I think we should get married.”
Harlow laughs me off. “Oh, god. None of that for me. I’m happy with just sex.”
I can barely swallow the bite of roast I just shoveled in my mouth. Now there’s a subject I can warm to.
Bracing an elbow on the table, I set my fork down and level a smoldering stare her way. “I can make that happen.”
A little smile dances across her face. “I’ll bet you can.” Her gaze slides over my shoulders and chest, and I swear she’s so potent it almost feels as if she’s touched me with her hands. “You look more than capable to me.”
I see interest and speculation on her face. She’s wondering what I’d be like in bed.
“I’ll give you whatever you want, Harlow. However you want it. As long as you want it. As hard as you want it. All you have to do is say the word.”
She doesn’t speak for a long moment, merely sips her liver transplant from a red Solo cup and stares at me over the rim. “How do I know you’re not an ax murderer?”
She’s teasing. I think. “You weren’t worried about that when I approached you all laid out by the pool.”
“Yeah, but I was watching you. The only harm you were causing me then was blocking my rays. I figured that if you had murder on your mind, you would have done far more than stand there gawking at me.”
