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Shelley stretches, snagging my T-shirt off the ground and dropping it over her head. She doesn’t bother tugging her panties, standing and smirking over her shoulder at me.
“Should I cook dinner?”
My eyebrows shoot up. Okay,thisI have to see… my poor little rich girl cooking? It’s either going to be amazing or terrible. Standing, I step into my trunks and jeans, grinning as I follow her into the kitchen.
Grabbing a beer, I sit at the table, my eyes following her as she moves around the kitchen, opening all the cabinets and assembling the makings of pasta on the bench.
As she cooks, she keeps looking over her shoulder at me. “When did you join the Wild Hawks?”
I smirk at her. She wants to know about me? I can do that. I’m still half-hard after our couch session. She kept calling me Daniel, and I couldn’t fucking help myself. Who knew hearing someone call me by my name for the first time in almost fifteen years would be such a turn-on? Maybe it was justShelleysaying my name. I don’t think I would have gotten as hot under the collar if Palmer or someone had said it.
“I started hanging around when I was about sixteen,” I admit, toying with my beer. “There were two Hawks on my street, a few years older than me. I thought it seemed cool to be a part of that lifestyle.”
Shelley nods, stirring her pasta, not speaking, so I continue.
“I prospected at nineteen, patched in at twenty-two, and was made an officer at twenty-eight.”
“How old are you now?”
“Thirty-three. How old are you, kid?”
She laughs, turning so I can see the amusement in her eyes. “Twenty-three,” she admits. Kid, indeed.
“Aw, you’re a baby,” I tease. Shelley flips me off, ruining it by poking her tongue at me.
“Real mature, kid,” I drawl at her. Rolling her eyes, she turns back to the stove, draining the pasta, stirring in the sauce, and plating it.
I inhale when she places the bowls in front of me, grabs her own beer, and takes a seat.
“Bon appétit,” she sings, tapping her beer bottle with mine. I think that means to eat up. There’s a café on the South Side called Bean Appetit. Which could be a coffee-related pun, I guess.
Taking a mouthful, I swallow down a hacking cough with the pasta. She is…not a good cook. I chase the food with beer, blinking rapidly.
Shelley shoots me a look, forking her own scoop of pasta in. An interesting look crosses her face, and she swallows, sticking her tongue out in a tiny gag as I grin at her.
“Cooking is not a skill anyone ever bothered to teach me,” she mutters. That is such a rich kid cop-out response.
“Why didn’t you teach yourself, kid?”
Hell, I can makepasta, and I’m a fucking terrible cook.
“Because I’m useless.”
She doesn’t sound like she’s getting down on herself, so I shoot her a smirk.
“I wouldn’t say useless,” I offer. Shelley lifts her head, her eyes finding mine as I wink at her. “You’re a pretty good lay.”
Her cheeks flame and she laughs, rolling her eyes at me.
“Well, as long as I’m good for something.”
Chuckling, I fork in more pasta. Shelley wrinkles her nose, waving her fork at me.
“Why are you still eating it? It’s awful!”
“It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever eaten,” I admit. “Food is food.”
“This isn’t food,” she drops her fork, glaring down at her uneaten meal. “This is disgusting.”
