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“Fish,” I say, holding up my hands in surrender. “You need to flip the fish, and I’m not sure I’d forgive you for wasting that crema.”
She looks at her spoon with pride. “It is pretty epic, but I need a second opinion.”
“Happy to be your guinea pig.” I turn to wash my hands. By the time I swivel back, the fish is flipped and she’s holding out a spoonful of crema for me. I reach to grab the utensil, but she holds the spoon higher, like she wants to feed me herself.
Swallowing is suddenly an effort.
I dip my head for a taste, unable to tear my eyes from hers as she slips the spoon past my lips.
“Good?” she asks, breathy.
I should focus on the avocado and lime lighting up my taste buds, but all I picture is her finger sliding inside my mouth instead of the spoon, a swirl of my tongue as I suck on her skin and murmurso fucking good.
Her eyes flare, like she knows exactly what I’m imagining. Like she planned to create this moment of intimacy. Does sheknowshe’s driving me mad?
“Needs more heat,” I say roughly, pulling back.
She licks her lips while eyeing my mouth. “I can do heat.”
I’m not sure either of us is still talking about the food. She spins away from me, moving deftly. She checks the frying fish, adds hot sauce to the crema, then takes the bowl to the table, as though I imagined the innuendo in our exchange.
“Mind taking out the fish while I put on a clean shirt?” she asks, heading toward her room.
“Already on it.” I remove the golden fillets and give my head a hard shake.
Even if Jolene isn’t into Jake, my attraction to her is moot. I wouldn’t hit on a woman a friend wanted, let alone betray one of my brothers. There’s no point analyzing her actions or mine.
She returns still wearing her jean shorts, but her new white T-shirt is fitted and shorter, revealing a tease of smooth abdomen. I clench my jaw.
She leans against the fridge, hands tucked in her front pockets. “Thanks for cooking with me tonight.”
“I was looking forward to it all day,” I admit, feeling my face heat. “Any word from your landlord on when your apartment will be ready?”
“Might be another month. The workers he hired can only fit the job in when they have lulls.”
“Is that why you cleaned my place?” I side-eye her and raise my eyebrows. Having this impossible situation drag on isn’t ideal, but I’m still happier knowing Jo has somewhere comfortable to stay. “You’re trying to ingratiate yourself to me?”
She bows dramatically. “Guilty as charged.”
More relaxed around each other, we work in tandem, grabbing plates, taco shells, slaw, napkins, while reminiscing about an actual food fight we had growing up—squirting each other with ketchup and mustard at one of her aunt’s barbecues. We eat. We laugh. We talk about how much our lives have changed and the stories we’ll never forget. My unwelcome attraction aside, I honestly don’t remember the last time I’ve felt so content in someone else’s company. Jokes mixed with easy conversation. History that creates deeper comfort.
And we make good food together.
“That was fantastic,” I say, finishing my last bite. “Best fish tacos I’ve ever had.”
Jo basks in my compliment. “Better than Casero in Ruby Grove?”
“Their fish batter wasn’t this crispy, which is obviously my cooking prowess.”
“Or it’s the recipe,” she says with a wink and knocks her foot into mine under the table.
She doesn’t pull her foot away. Instead, she lets her knee fall out and hit mine, studying me with a curious expression, while I try to keep my body’s reaction in check.
“I’m on cleanup duty,” I blurt as I stand. Movement is good. Blood circulation.
“We’reon cleanup duty. But do you mind if we do it later?” she asks hesitantly.
“You have something else planned?”
