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I try to slap him in his stomach, but he grabs my hand and holds it, winking at me. “What’s for dinner? Let me tell you this, babe… I do have a pan, and that’s about it.”
“You just sit there and look pretty.” I push him down on the couch. His hands travel under my shirt, resting on my hips. He pulls me toward him, settling me between his legs. I rest my elbows on his shoulders and brush my fingers through his hair without thinking.
His fingers slowly move up my spine to the place below my breasts, trailing the contours of naked skin. He traces his thumb over my nipple, and it responds immediately, standing at attention. Yeah, should have definitely worn a bra.
He grins. “I put your clothes in the washer outside.”
I push him back. “You stole my bra and panties.” I try to keep my voice from trembling.
He winks, not even pretending to feel the least bit guilty about it. His hands slowly move down my waist, making me ache for more. He smells so good, and my stomach tenses. This is too familiar way too soon, and what about Shane? My heart is a mess.
I quickly pull away when fear takes hold of me, and he lets me. I can’t really pinpoint the look in his eyes. Is it regret about asking me here?
“Dinner will be ready in an hour, give or take,” I say, turning my back to him, rummaging through the grocery bag that he left on the counter.
“Fine by me, babe,” he says, standing and making his way to the bathroom. He takes a shower, and I listen to the water cascading down, imagining him standing naked under the stream. With me cooking us dinner, like I do this every day, it scares me how much I like it.
It takes me about an hour to make one of my favorite dishes: Gnocchi with mozzarella, eggplant, and tomato. Meanwhile, I look around his place that gets more amazing with each glance. Pictures decorate the walls of him and his brother, their friends in the snow. There is even one with him in the halfpipe. I didn’t know he rode those as well. Maybe it’s part of some specialist training he does on the side.
“It smells fantastic,” he says, brushing a towel through his wet hair. He catches me staring at a picture of him wrapped in an American flag in the halfpipe. Is that a medal hanging around his neck?
I turn around as he takes the picture from my hands, placing it back on the shelf of his bookcase. It’s my turn to let my mouth hang open. He has a towel wrapped around his hips, but his six-pack is glistening with water droplets. Damn, he looks too good to be true.
He smiles when he catches me staring and licking my lips, like I’m gonna ravish him on the ground between the oven and couch.
“Don’t give me that look when we haven’t even eaten,” he drawls.
I try to ignore the sexy tone in his deep voice, turning my attention back to the oven. “I wasn’t,” I murmur, my cheeks heating.
“I feel violated by your look,” he calls from behind the closed bathroom door, while I get the food out of the oven. “And I like it.” He snickers, walking back into the room wearing a black shirt and shorts.
I place the food on the table together with the plates and two beers I found in the fridge. “Eat your dinner,” I order, sitting opposite from him at the table.
“Don’t mind if I do,” he says and takes a giant piece from the dish. He digs in and pushes the biggest bite into his mouth.
“This is really good,” he says with his mouth full.
“You say it like you’re surprised.” I chuckle, taking a bite as well.
“This is fucking amazing. Like cooking show good,” he says. Leaning to the left, he opens the refrigerator and grabs two extra beers, handing me one.
I take a swig from my beer and scan the label. “Cooking is a hobby. I love trying out new things, and this recipe is one of the easy ones.”
During dinner, we talk about everyday things, and it surprises me how easily the conversation flows between serious and full out banter. He isn’t afraid to speak his mind. We disagree on a lot of things, but there are enough topics we agree on, like traveling the world, movies, and music.
“My brother, Layne, loves to eat like you do,” I tell him, before taking a swig from my beer and leaning back in my seat.
“You have two older brothers, right?” he asks while I hand him my now empty plate to put in the dishwasher.
I set the bottle down with shaking hands. Why do I always shut down when someone asks about my brother? I should tell him, I’ve known the guy for less than a week, but a part of me realizes I can tell him anything, without him judging me or feeling sorry for me. Shane avoided the Ronnie talk. I’m not sure I can give him my escape story, the one where I tell everyone I’m okay, and some bullshit that time heals all wounds. Brushing both my hands through my hair, I take a deep breath. I can’t remember how many times I wanted to talk with Shane about my brother, and he changed the subject each time. He loved my brother so much. Maybe it was too painful for him to talk about him too?
I take another drink from my beer, almost downing the whole thing as I stand and lean against the counter. But I can’t tell Jesse. So I do what I always do, change the subject. “Do you have more of this?” I ask, holding the bottle in the air. “Tell me about what you were doing in a halfpipe?” I point with my chin to the picture. “And is that a medal?”
He raises one brow, like he’s debating pushing me further. “I do, and it was for participation, like the kiddos get,” he says, sitting back against the couch cushions, the corner of his mouth twitching a little. He watches me intently and wets his lips, like he does when he is nervous. Why the fuck do I know this?
He hands me another beer. I twist the top off and make a face.
“What?” he asks.
