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No. She hadn’t.
Had she?
“The food is incredible, isn’t it?” Mick raised his own glass toward his mouth. “Angus did it again.”
“The guy can cook.” She watched his lips close around his straw. A pulse somewhere low in her body throbbed a bit faster. “Or in this case, tell people how to cook.”
Mick chuckled, lowering his glass. “True. Although every time he told me how to cook when we teenagers, what I made didn’t taste as good.”
She raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. “TheMickBlackthorne isn’t perfect at something?”
A devilish glint shone in his eyes. “It was when we were teenagers.”
She snorted.
“I’m an amazing cook now.” He drew his head a little closer, lips twitching. “Better than Angus.”
Zeta laughed. “Of course you are.” Damn it, why was she enjoying this interaction?
Mick chuckled again, straightening. “Okay, maybe notbetterthan Angus.” He pulled a melodramatic face. “Let’s go withalmostbetter than Angus.”
She rolled her eyes, her own lips curling. “Almost better.”
“But—” he held up a finger, “—I’d still wage my signature breakfast dish against his.”
“And what’s your signature breakfast dish?” Why did she want to know?
If he says he’ll cook it for you tomorrow morning, what will you say?
Her stomach knotted. What would she say? Groan at the lame pick-up attempt, scowl at his assumption that she’d even contemplate having breakfast with him, let alone the inuendo behind the wholeI’ll cook you breakfastline, or say—
“Vegemite on white bread toast,” he said.
She burst out laughing. Again. Damn him. He had no right to make her laugh like this. “That’s your signature dish?”
“Hey, don’t scoff. There’s a skill to mastering the perfect Vegemite-to-butter ratio. Plus, the bread has to be just the right level of toasted. Not too brown, but not a wussy, pale tan either.”
“The perfect Vegemite-to-butter ratio is all butter, no Vegemite,” she stated. Her blood licked hot with a little thrill of excitement, anticipating his response.
He gasped. “No. You’re not one ofthoseAmericans, are you? The kind that doesn’t like Vegemite?”
“Yes.” She tapped his chest. Once. “I am.”
A violent sigh burst from him, and his shoulders slumped. “And here I was thinking we might have finally found a way to be friends.”
“Us?” She twisted her lips to stop her smile. “Friends? No way.”
No, no, no. Stop being charmed by him. Stop it.
“In that case.” He raised his glass. “To breakfasts.”
She raised her empty one. “To breakfasts.”
He took a sip from his. She tried not to watch his lips close around his straw again. Tried and failed.
“So what’syoursignature breakfast dish?” he asked, his smile relaxed.
“A breakfast burrito from Super Bronco Authentic Mexican Diner. Curb-side pick-up.” She waited for the judgement to fill his eyes.
