Annabel looks between Samuel and me, a knowing grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You two seem to be equally matched. Conversationally speaking, anyway. Which makes you very fun to watch.”
“We’re here for your enjoyment.” Samuel keeps his eyes on me. “I’d love your help with the wine, Emma. I brought a few options and I can’t decide what would work best with the short ribs. I was thinking a Merlot, but then I just got this Amarone—”
“I love Amarone!”
He grins. “Thought you might, you grape weirdo. C’mon, let’s give it a try.”
I follow him inside, the tingles growing stronger as my eyes rove over the expanse of his back. Heaven above, the way the muscles there press against his sweater, how they move—
I close my eyes.
Remember he was a jerk.
Remember you made him promise to keep it professional.
If only my body would get the memo. But that’s difficult when this man has given me, hands down, the best orgasm of my life not by my own hand. I had no idea I could come so hard with someone else.
Ugh, can’t go there. I’m at Sunday supper. There will be absolutely no thoughts of orgasms or penises in hand or fucking gorgeous bodies.
None. Zero. Zilch.
We head into the kitchen as I try to get a grip on my raging libido. I pause on the threshold, heart beginning to pound as I take it all in.
The island is covered in cutting boards and casseroles. The skins of onions, carrot peels, and a freshly grated mound of cheddar cheese crowd a large cutting board. Something bubbles in a pot on the stove; the oven lights are on, and I can just glimpse an enormous cast-iron pot through the door.
The smell is insane. Butter and braised meat and the starchy-sweet smell of roasted vegetables.
Samuel navigates the fray effortlessly. Pointing me toward the case of wine set on the far countertop, he lifts the lid on the pot and gives whatever’s bubbling a whisk. Then he grabs the knife on the cutting board and gives a bunch of parsley a quick, expert chop, the muscles in his massive forearm flexing as he moves.
“You always cook for Sunday supper?” I ask.
“Yup. Everyone pitches in, but I don’t mind doing the heavy lifting. It’s fun cooking for a crowd. It’s also relaxing. After brunch service on Sundays, I go home, throw on some jeans and a playlist, pour a glass of something good, and then get to work.”
I decant the Amarone in a daze, stuck on the way his hands look as they gather the cheese mountain and dump it in the pot.
“What’s that?” I ask, nearly losing an eye in my effort to uncork a second bottle. I pour myself a taste. Amarone is an Italian grape known for its raisin, candied fruit deliciousness. It’s been around for a while but has only appeared on menus here in the States in the past couple of years.
This one delivers in a big way.
“The cheesiest, butteriest, most decadent grits you’re ever gonna have in your life. That guy Luke at yesterday’s luncheon, he brought a whole truck’s worth of his grits up with him. Eli gave me some pointers on how to cook ’em.” He whisks in the cheese. “Also, Annabel’s nursing the baby, which apparently makes her really hungry. I thought some old-fashioned, stick-to-your-ribs grits would be good for her. For you too. When you’re on your feet all day like we are, you gotta eat. It’s a good way to start the week. Plus, grits’ll go real nice with the gravy from the short ribs. I put a little brown sugar in the gravy to make it the tiniest bit sweet. That sweet and savory combo—or, should I say, that Albariño and ham croqueta combo—well, it’s fuckin’ ridiculous.”
He taps the whisk on the side of the pot. Grabbing two spoons, he dips one in the pot and blows on it before offering it to me. With eyes bright, his grin is somehow rakish and cute all at once.
“What?” he asks, furrowing his brow. “You not like grits?”
I need to stop staring, and I really need to stop my heart from swelling so much and so quickly it explodes. But I can’t.
This is a Samuel I’ve only caught glimpses of—a guy who’s relaxed, effusive, joyful. He looked this way talking about soccarat and sobre mesa. His grin is so different from the big, flashing smiles he gives the rest of the world. It’s soft. Sweet.
It’s real.
“I love grits,” I manage as I take the spoon. Our fingers brush, and I’m suddenly short of breath. “Thank you.”
He grabs a spoon for himself, and we eat our grits at the same time.
I would never in a million years think of grits as an aphrodisiac. But Samuel’s grits?
Lord Almighty, they’re making me feel all kinds of sensual. They’re just the right balance of toothsome and creamy. Perfectly seasoned. I savor them and I taste the bite of the sharp cheddar, the slight sweetness of the heavy cream he must’ve used, and the salt and starch and the satisfying richness of the corn.
I can’t help it.
I moan.
I actually moan, and then turn bright red because I’m in a nice family house at a nice family dinner, but here I am having a downright explicit moment all thanks to grits.
Samuel’s chest barrels out on a laugh. The sound is deep, satisfied, contagious, and I laugh too, holding a hand over my mouth so I don’t spew food everywhere.
“So you’re saying they give Eli Jackson’s grits a run for their money?” he asks.
“The last thing I want to do is add hot air to your ego. But yeah. Yeah, those are really, really good. And with this?” I pour him a taste of the Amarone and pass it to him. “It’ll take the entire meal over the top.”
He sips, then moves the wine around his mouth.
Then he moans, rolling his eyes in exaggerated pleasure.
“Am I interrupting something?” Annabel walks into the kitchen, baby on her hip, and heads for the refrigerator. “Or is the wine really that orgasmic?”
Samuel sets down his glass and nods at me for more. “I’ll definitely be drinking it at my orgy later.”
“Wow,” I say. “Your Sunday nights sound a lot more interesting than mine.”
“Right?” Annabel takes a teething ring out of the freezer and holds it up. “This about sums up my plans for today and really every day from now until forever.”
“I hope some good food will help.”
“It definitely helps.” She puts a hand on Samuel’s arm. “Thank you. For everything. I really appreciate all that you’re doing for Beau and me.”
He lowers his voice. Looking out the window at Beau, who’s chatting with Rhett by the fire outside, he says, “I’m trying my best to get my brother to see some sense.”
Annabel’s smile fades. “I’m trying, but so far I’m failing.”
“He’ll get there. I’ll keep reminding him what a bonehead he’s being. You keep being you. And Miss Maisie, you just keep being the cutest damn baby ever, all right?” He tickles Maisie’s foot, making her smile.
I’m not the biggest kid person. But not gonna lie, it makes my heart melt to see Samuel being so affectionate and playful with Maisie. I’m seeing a whole other side of him tonight, and it’s working some kind of murder on my resolve to keep things fucking professional.