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When I hand him his lemonade, our eyes meet, and a shock of electricity jolts through me. His dark eyes have hot amber flecks in them that weren’t there before, or weren’t lit up like that. He understands exactly what’s going onhere.
He takes the glass from me, our fingers brushing, and another jolt sizzles along my skin. Heart pounding, I circle around the coffee table and sit on the sofa too, close but not crowding him, and take a sip of my lemonade.
Romero takes a sip, too, followed by a healthy swig. “This is great.” He drinks some more; I watch his throat move and wish I could kiss him there. “Homemade?”
“Yes.” I gesture to the tray. “The cookies, too.”
He eyes them speculatively. “Peanut butter chocolate chip,” I tellhim.
“Can’t pass that up.” The cookie looks surprisingly dainty in his big hand. He takes a bite, chews, swallows. Gets a funny look on his face that I’ve seen before when people try our baking for the firsttime.
The rest of the cookie follows in one big bite before he says, “Do you mind ifI …”
“Please. They’re all yours..”
He wolfs down another cookie like he hasn’t eaten all day. “Damn. That is excellent.”
I smile at him, ridiculously pleased, and those tawny flecks in his eyes heat up again. There’s an answering twitch between my legs, and I can’t help shifting on the couch. His oh-so-kissable mouth curves a little, in a way that says he knows just what I need. For a moment I think we’re going to get right down to business on the couch.
And then he says, “I can’t be your lawyer.”
