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And he’s an alpha.
I don’t trust them. Yet, I’m not pushing this one away. “On my nose?”
“Yup.”
“Why?”
“Didn’t think you’d want more than that, and I wanted to show my appreciation.”
“You could have said thanks,” I tell him, not unhappy about his sweet kiss.
He shakes his head. “I prefer to show it. It’s the Cajun in me. We’re an affectionate, tactile bunch.”
Tactile.
My mind seizes on the word. And on his large hands. Hands he still has on me and I’m not doing a thing about it.
He’s an alpha, Everleigh. Remember how you want nothing to do with alphas?
“So you’ve remembered the recipe?” I hope my question will drown out my far too loud, sensible inner voice.
“Not yet. But I will.” Rune must be psychic to hear my inner voice for him to take his hands off my face—something I should have told him to do the second he put his hands on me.
As he heads for the refrigerator, I do my best to ignore his low-slung navy sweats, the way they hug his butt, and the way I want to put my hands on him. “And you’ll kiss my nose again?”
Why do I want the answer to be yes?
He’s busy rummaging around in the refrigerator when he calls out, “Probably.” He pulls his head out long enough to look at me. “Unless you prefer I didn’t.”
“Um.” I hide my lying eyes. “I guess I wouldn’t mind it.”
When did you become such a liar?
He doesn’t respond. I peek over at him to discover why.
He’s back to rummaging in the refrigerator, piling celery, carrots, and other veggies into those big, muscled arms. But he’s smiling as he says, “Well, if you ever decide you want to kiss my nose, the Cajun in me would appreciate it.”
“Oh?” I feign indifference as I silence a tiny voice that wonders what it might be like to do it. Maybe not just his nose.
He dumps an armload of veggies on the counter and balls up the piece of paper, which he tosses in the trash. “Yep.”
My sensible inner voice is suspiciously silent about the idea of kissing Rune Fontenot on his nose. “You’re too tall. I won’t always be sitting on a counter.”
He’s still smiling—did he ever really stop?—as he abandons gathering ingredients to cross over to me. A day ago, I’d be backing away. Today, he doesn’t seem the least bit threatening. I stay put, watching the big, smiling alpha amble over to me.
“Then you have permission to grab my shirt here.” He mimes gripping the front of his shirt and pulls down, bridging the height difference between us. “Like this.”
I fight back a smile at ever doing such a thing. “You could be in a meeting.”
“Ain’t no meetin’ so important it can’t be interrupted for that, cher.”
His accent is thicker now. I’d accuse him of doing it on purpose because after his smile in Lawrence’s garden, he must know what effect that thick, syrupy, sweet Cajun drawl has on me. And my panties. I don’t because he might stop.
I’m working out how to respond to his accent, the smile in his eyes, and the minuscule distance between us when a male snort from the doorway draws my gaze.
Kylian, dressed in a pair of black jeans, a white T-shirt, and bare feet, is resting his hip against the doorframe, a smirk curling his lips. “Ah, is the big Cajun wooing you with his sweet ways? Or do I need to save you from death by shrimp étouffée?”
Rune launches a carrot at him.
