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I hesitate for a moment, but then agree. We walk over to the same sitting area where I waited for them earlier.
“I’m gonna stow these away and grab a hot chocolate. Do you want another?” he asks.
I shake my head and place a hand on my stomach. “I’m stuffed.”
He disappears for a few minutes and returns without our boards but with a cup of hot cocoa, overflowing with whipped cream.
“Hey,” I protest as he sits next to me in the large Adirondack chair. “I didn’t get whipped cream on mine.”
“You have to ask for it,” he says smugly.
“Insider info,” I muse. “That’s good to know for next time.”
“Why wait?” he murmurs, extending his cup toward me in offering.
I lick some of the cream from its tower on top of the hot liquid. I’m aware of Zane’s eyes following the movement.
“Do it again,” he orders, his voice thick and sultry.
So, I do. I move seductively toward his drink up until the very last second, when I bite at the sweet substance, a huge amount disappearing into my mouth in the process. I laugh as some of it smears across my lips. Before I can swipe it away with my tongue, Zane closes the distance between us. The next thing I know, his mouth is on mine. I don’t have time to think, and truly, I don’t want to overanalyze it. Because the taste of him and the whipped cream scrambles my mind. I feel myself start to come unglued when his tongue grazes my top lip and he bites my bottom one, sucking it before letting go. The temperature rises a good thirty to forty degrees.
Far too soon, he pulls away, looking sheepish.
“Sorry,” he rumbles. “I forgot myself for a moment.”
“So did I,” I whisper.
We sit there for an awkward beat of silence, and I want to wipe the repentant look off his face.
“Wasn’t it great … forgetting what we should do and just doing what we want?”
He studies me for a few seconds to assess the sincerity of my statement before a slow smirk spreads across his face. I wink at him, and his lips lift even more. He looks away and takes a drink from his cup.
“You’re going to be the death of me, Lo.”
“Me?” I say innocently with a hand against my chest.
“Yeah, you,” he practically mumbles.
I smile and bite my bottom lip. He tracks every movement with those navy-colored eyes.
He just shakes his head and glances away again with a small smile.
We move on to more neutral territory. He asks me about work, and he seems genuinely interested in hearing about it. I tell him the challenges that come with shifting from one specialty to another and the learning curve that accompanies it. I fill him in on my schedule for the next week since it’s always changing.
“Have you heard from Ron Cooper again?” he asks.
I sigh.
“That’s a yes,” he says, interpreting my wry expression.
“He called a week or so ago,” I admit.
I see his hand fist in his lap as he tries not to react to the news.
“How did that go?”
“About as well as you’d think,” I say.
