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I frowned. "Seriously? That's the best you got? You sound like a bad domestic violence PSA."
He didn't answer, just took another stoic bite of salad. Whelp. There went the mood.
We continued to eat in relative silence, the sounds of our forks clinking on the plates while we plowed through the salad, charcuterie, and the second bottle of wine.
"Thanks for this," Brandon said after eating the last of the salad. "It was nice."
He collected my plate and started to take the empty dishes to the kitchen. I followed with the rest, and we began cleaning up together. Brandon was as messy as always––I had literally never seen the man do dishes without getting water and soap all over himself.
"Here," I said, trying to edge in between him and the sink. "Let me. You're making a mess of your nice shirt."
"No, that's okay, I got it."
"Seriously," I said as I grabbed for the sponge and started scrubbing out the salad bowl. "I wanted to do this for you."
"Yeah, but you shouldn't be standing on your leg for too long," Brandon argued back as he continued to spray food off the plates, causing a bit of water to hit him and me at the same time.
"Stop!" I cried. "It doesn't need to be that high! Turn it down!"
"Jesus, can you just give me some space?"
Brandon turned off the sprayer, but still reached into the sink irritably for another glass to load.
"What?" I asked, confused even as I crowded him even more. "I'm just doing dishes."
"Skylar, seriously. I need you to back the fuck off!"
I stopped scrubbing and narrowed my eyes. "Why? What's wrong with me?"
"Well, to start, you smell too damn good!"
Brandon exploded backward, stepping away against the island behind us. The move put three feet between us. It might as well have been a mile.
"And then there's that dress––you knew what you were doing with that, prancing around with your legs all long and..."
He yanked at the collar of his shirt, swallowing heavily as his eyes landed on the aforementioned body parts. The look made a flush bloom over them, and I squeezed my thighs together. Brandon's eyes bulged.
"And on top of that," he continued, his voice suddenly strained, "I can't fuckin' think straight with all that water plastering your dress to your chest like that, when you're looking at me like..."
Slowly, I leaned against the counter, facing him. With his water-spattered shirt pressing the fabric over his defined chest, he looked like he'd stepped out of a wet T-shirt contest. A really sexy wet T-shirt contest for men in five-thousand-dollar suits. I looked down at myself. He's gotten water all over us both, and the thin cotton of my dress, now damp over my breasts, was making my current state of mind pretty obvious.
"Like what?" I asked coyly as my insides clenched.
Brandon glared at me, but it was full of a different kind of heat. "Like you want to tackle me."
Maybe this evening wasn't a total wash after all. I slid my hands provocatively down the edges of the counter, arching my back slightly. Brandon watched the movement with dilated eyes.
"Maybe," I said, "I do."
Slowly, because I couldn't actually walk very well, and also because I didn't want to rush it, I crossed the space between us, doing the exact opposite of what he had asked me to. Brandon inhaled sharply as I stepped into his personal space. I raised a hand and laid it gently on his damp chest. When he made no move to step away, I stood up on my tiptoes, balancing most of my weight on my good foot.
"You're mad," I breathed against his ear.
I wasn't planning to seduce him tonight, but since I was here, I might as well go for it. We both clearly wanted it, needed it. Maybe that was the path toward healing.
"So fucking mad," he agreed. He closed his eyes as if in pain, the strain causing the muscles at his neck to bunch. On the counter, his fists clenched tightly. "And you're mad at me too."
"Incredibly," I agreed as I undid his tie and slowly pulled it the rest of the way from his neck. I folded it up and smacked it lightly against his chest. "Furious."
