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“You are speaking to a British woman in Mexican food terminology. Does not translate.”
“Sorry. It’s just that . . . honestly, I’m not really sure what happened in Julian’s kitchen.” She only knew her entire body started to tingle thinking about it. His breath on her neck, their mouths interlocked and panting. “Or if it was a-a . . . normal thing to do?”
Lavinia was agog. “Fuck off. He tried anal?”
“No!” Her cheeks were hot enough now to be fresh from the oven. “Not that.”
“Oh, thank God.” Lavinia briefly doubled over. “I was going to need a cigarette for this.”
“It was more like . . .” Hallie looked around to make sure nobody was within earshot, then dropped her voice to a whisper. “The internet calls it mutual masturbation.”
“Bloody hell, I do need that cigarette.” Lavinia stared at her for a beat. “What?”
“I know.”
Jerome approached his wife from behind, his default suspicious expression in full swing. “What’s going on here?”
“I’ll tell you later,” Lavinia said quickly. “But in brief: it involves wanking.” Without missing a beat, Jerome turned and moseyed to the other side of the booth. Lavinia shrugged defensively in the face of Hallie’s sputtering shock. “I had to get rid of him so I can hear the rest of it, didn’t I?”
Hallie slumped. “There is no rest of it. This time I’m really, really sure it was the last occasion we . . . do something both confusing and . . .” She tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry, thanks to the sensual memories bombarding her. The way he’d ground his hardness there, the movements of his hand speeding up, his grunt of her name. “. . . arousing. Together.”
“Yes, yes,” Lavinia said, peering at her thoughtfully. “I can see you are definitely capable of saying no. Your nips aren’t hard or anything.”
“What?” Hallie looked down and saw the apron was definitely low enough to make out the outline of her nipples—and they were indeed bullet-shaped. Had they been anything but puckered and uncomfortable for the last two days? With a hasty yank, she tugged up the neck of the apron to cover the evidence. “No, really.” She hesitated a moment, then blurted, “I wrote him a second secret admirer letter. Sober this time.”
Lavinia rocked back on her heels. “No. You didn’t.”
“Lavinia, note my track record of complicating things. You know I did.” She bit her lip. “And they were right there, in plain view in his Food Network–worthy kitchen. He quoted them at me, and I couldn’t bring myself to tell him I’m the author.”
Her best friend crossed herself. “Only God can save you now, Hallie Welch.”
“That’s a little dramatic.” Nervous energy snapped in her veins. “Right?”
“What’s a little dramatic?”
They both turned to find Owen standing at the front of the booth. At first, Hallie wondered if maybe the man was an evil twin. Or a doppelgänger. Since she’d only ever seen Owen in jeans and a T-shirt. Or shorts and gardening shoes. But tonight he wore pressed slacks and a tucked-in polo shirt, hair styled. And was that cologne?
“Owen. Darling.” Lavinia recovered from the interruption first, leaning across the table to kiss Owen on both cheeks. “You look fabulous.”
“Thanks.” Rather adorably, he scrubbed at the back of his neck. “Same to you.” His attention drifted to Hallie and stuck. “You look great tonight, too, Hallie. Really great.”
She looked down at her outfit of choice, most of which was covered by the apron. Probably a good thing, considering she’d found it impossible to settle on an ensemble, so she’d ended up with a low-cut floral shirt tucked into a plaid, high-waisted skirt. At least her hair was in order tonight, curls tamed and loose around her shoulders. “Thanks, Owen—”
Her words cut themselves off. Because when she glanced up from her schizophrenic getup, there he was, directly over Owen’s shoulder.
Julian Vos had entered the tent.
It was shocking to find out that she’d almost slightly gotten used to his presence—but only when it was just the two of them. In public like this? He was a Van Gogh in a gallery of children’s finger paintings. He was quite simply incomparable. Tall and intense and handsome and attention-grabbing. Kind of impatient-looking, on top of it all. Every head turned at his arrival, as if they’d sensed a shift in the atmospheric balance.
He wore a starched white shirt totally devoid of wrinkles and navy blue slacks. A burgundy tie. Cuff links. He looked like the type of man who would wear those old-fashioned sock garters below the knee. And she’d touched herself in front of him. He’d done the same. They’d been completely weak in front of each other while the storm rampaged outside, and seeing him now, so composed and in charge, made the whole thing feel like a dream.
