“Guess what?” Tucker asked.
Gunner poked his head out of the pantry. “That’s my cue, right?”
Tucker grabbed Gunner’s wrist and dragged him out. “Uncle Colt. Gunner Gentry is here. Gunner. Gentry. Our favorite baseball player.”
“He’s your favorite,” Colt muttered.
“He’s your favorite too,” Tucker said. “Remember when you stayed up late bidding on that auction to get a signed game-used jersey of Gunner’s someone was selling?” Tucker turned toward Gunner. “He lost. Uncle Colt has a man cave with all these jerseys he’s bought. He really, really wanted yours, but some dickwad outbid him.”
“Tucker Ryan Moreland,” I said, placing my hands on my hips. My best mom stance. “Where did you learn that word?”
“Oops,” Tucker said as his eyes slid to Colt.
Colt groaned and lowered his chin to his chest. “Kid, what did I tell you about keeping that between us?”
“You said to never, ever tell Mom what happens when it’s just the two of us. And I can never, ever tell her the cool words you teach me.”
“Didn’t need to be that detailed,” Colt muttered.
“We’re going to talk about this.” I glared at my brother.
Gunner chuckled. He leaned against the wall behind him, crossing his arms over his chest and watching the three of us. I tore my eyes away from him and focused on Tuck. “Don’t listen to your uncle…unless he’s telling you something you should be doing. That language is something you should not be saying.”
“Mom, can we stay, please?”
“Nope, sorry. Too many cooks in the kitchen.”
Tucker turned toward Gunner. “Can I see you later? Can you come to Thanksgiving at the inn next week?”
He grinned and held out a fist for Tuck to bump. “My mom and I are going to her friend’s house for Thanksgiving next week, but we sure can hang out another time.”
Tucker’s entire being lit up and he nodded.
“Come on,” Colt said and ushered Tucker toward the door. “We’ll be back later.” Colt eyed Gunner on his way out. He’d been overprotective as long as I could remember and hadn’t lost any of it, even as I became an adult. In fact, it might’ve gotten worse when Tuck came into our lives.
Once the front door clicked closed, I asked Gunner, “Ready to get started?”
“Yep, show me what to do, boss.”
Gunner unbuttoned one of the sleeves of his plaid shirt and rolled it to his elbow. His taut forearm distracted me and became the center of my focus as he unbuttoned the other sleeve. I gasped, before I could stop myself, as that arm came into view.
His hand froze in the rolling motion, and he raised his eyes toward mine. A crease formed between his eyebrows as he drew them together and his mouth parted. He cleared his throat. “They’re burns.”
I unconsciously stepped forward with my hand outstretched. I snatched it back when I realized what I was doing. Heat rose in my cheeks, and I covered my mouth with my hands. “Oh my god. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”
I faced the counter and started organizing the lasagna ingredients I’d placed on the island. They were already in the order we’d need them, but I needed something to do with my hands. “How’s your mom? Does she like lasagna? Did she ever make it for you as a kid? What’s her favorite dish?”
My back warmed from Gunner’s heat as he stepped in close behind me. His hand brushed down my arm until it covered my hand, stopping me from moving the glassware again. His burned arm was next to mine as he stood behind me, almost flush against my back. I felt the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, and his sandalwood scent overwhelmed me.
His hand was rough with calluses, and his nails were short and neat. Each long finger was thick. I’d never been so fascinated with a hand in my life. Part of his hand was burned, like his arm, and I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed before today. I’d only seen him in long sleeves until that point.
I imagined the poster in Tucker’s room. He had on one of those long-sleeved sports shirts under his jersey, hiding the burns on his arm. Or maybe protecting them? I wasn’t sure. I had so many questions I wanted to ask.
“Do you still have fingerprints?”
Gunner snorted. My cheeks flamed again. So many questions I wanted to ask, and that’s where I started?
“Not on this hand,” he answered, squeezing mine.
“I don’t either. Well, I still have some, but I’ve burned myself tons over the years from cooking accidents. We could commit the perfect crime together. No fingerprints.”
Gunner’s chest shook my back as he vibrated with laughter. “What should we do?”
“Rob a bank? It’d help me save for Tuck’s college fund.”
Gunner kept laughing, and I closed my eyes as he crowded me closer to the counter. It’d been a long time since I had been this close to a man. And I didn’t know that I’d ever been this close to a man this gorgeous.
“Don’t you have other questions?” Gunner asked. “Like how it happened?”
I turned in the little space that he’d allowed me and stared into his eyes. Our legs were pressed together and our torsos touched with each breath. I shivered as our eyes connected. “Only if you want to tell me,” I whispered.
He swallowed and looked down at his burned arm, which was still leaning against the island. “Maybe on our tequila night.”
Chapter 12
Gunner
I wanted to wrap my hand around the long, wild length of Delilah’s chestnut hair and tilt her head back until I could consume her in a kiss. We were barely touching, just enough to feel each other’s heat. I wanted to plaster myself to the front of her body and explore every curve and valley. A breath escaped past her lips as she parted them. My gaze honed in on her plush, pink lips. I held back my groan when her tongue darted out to wet them. I wanted to taste her.
I didn’t do any of those things. Instead, I stepped back, ran a hand through my hair, and tugged on the ends before turning to the sink to wash my hands. “What’s the first step?” I peeked over my shoulder.
Delilah’s back was still to the island, and she had a hand on her chest as she breathed heavily in and out. At least I wasn’t the only one affected by the tiny ember stirring to life between us.
“We’re going to make the sauce first. I like to get everything prepped and chopped before starting. It makes the process smoother, and then you can glide through the kitchen instead of running around frazzled. Grab one of those onions and peel it.”
I grabbed an onion from one of the bowls at the center of the island and worked on peeling back the papery skin. By the time I was done with one, Delilah had two onions chopped in half and sitting on a cutting board.
Once the ingredients were prepped, measured, and sitting in little glass bowls, ready to dump in when they were needed, we moved over to the stove.
I stirred the browning meat as it popped and sizzled in its own grease. Delilah sat on the counter by the stove sipping a glass of wine. My eyes kept darting back and forth between the meat I was supposed to be cooking and her long swinging legs. Her head was resting on the cabinets behind her, and there was a content little smile on her gorgeous face.