When I back away, her breasts lift as her breathing speeds up. She doesn’t have a quip for that, which tells me plenty. She wants me again—as much as I want her.
“You mentioned cooking.” I throw her words from last night at her. “Lunch is on you.”
“What about breakfast?”
“Coffee was breakfast.” I wink and leave her in the kitchen, flustered, pink cheeked, and wanting me.
Perfect.
Chapter 8
SUNDAY
Becca
Let’s play Never Have I Ever. I’ll start. Never have I ever had a guy play hard to get.
If that’s what Dax is doing.
I thought men wanted sex 24-7. And I’m pretty sure what I have going on works for him—in the bedroom anyway.
Yet here I am, with a book in my lap while Dax carefully crafts a handmade fishing lure over an open tackle box. Watching those big fingers tie tiny knots and fasten feathers to the hook is weirdly erotic. It reminds me of how he unlatched the delicate straps of my sandals. He has nimble fingers for a wide, muscly guy.
The flat-screen TV hanging above the fireplace is on and tuned to the Weather Channel. Same outlook as yesterday. Flooding. Storms. More rain. Tad texted me again to let me know that most of the roads leading in and out of town are okay. It’s our mountain that has issues.
My phone tweets—my text ringtone—and I lift the screen and read yet another text from Tad: I forwarded the main office number to my cell. I’ll handle any calls and maintenance. Don’t worry about work.
Sure, you may see it as a day off, but I know what this is about. Tad isn’t giving me time off out of the goodness of his heart. I heave an audible sigh and plunk my phone down before staring blindly at my book.
“Bad news?” Dax asks, not looking up from his work.
“Tad thinks I’m an imbecile,” I huff. “Like I can’t handle phone calls or maintenance or running this place in his absence? He’s doing everything remotely for me!”
I slap the book closed. Frustration set to simmer, I cross my arms and address Dax. “You asked how old I was earlier.”
This earns me a chin raise. He pegs me with pale eyes.
“And you’ve addressed me as ‘Princess.’ Does that mean you also believe I’m immature and imbecilic?”
His mouth pulls at the corners, his brow wrinkling. He snaps into the expression so seamlessly, I have the impression he’s more a frowner than a smiler. He sets the lure aside and rests his elbows on his knees.
“Listen closely, Princess. You have an issue with your brother and I get that, but don’t take it out on me. And don’t accuse me of things that aren’t true.”
That’s fair.
“Why ‘Princess,’ then?” I ask with fifty percent less venom.
Dax doesn’t have to pause to think of his answer.
“It’s the way you move. There’s an elegance to you. You hold yourself with confidence. Like a princess. A duchess.” He tosses a hand. “Royalty shit.”
I blink, flattered despite the fact that he just used the words “royalty” and “shit” together.
“You a dancer?” His eyes are assessing.
I’m stunned speechless for a few seconds. “I was.”
“Thought so.” He nods, reaches for his lure, and resumes tying feathers on it once again.
“How’d you know that?”
“Didn’t know,” he says. “Like I said, it’s the way you move.”
Observant for a guy who slings drinks.
“Have you always been a bartender?” I ask.
“Never bartended. I own bars.”
“Bars plural?”
“Yep. Two.”
“And you’ve never tended bar.”
“Filled in, but no, not full time. I’m better at owning. Not that great with people.” He spares me a glance. He doesn’t strike me as “not that great with people,” but then again he had my pants off inside two hours of meeting him, so maybe I’m not the best person to ask.
He drops the lure into the tackle box and shuts the lid, sitting back on the couch in a sturdy slouch that doesn’t make him look any less powerful.
I’m not the relationship type, so hanging out with a guy is a new concept. Moments where the only sounds in the room are the low murmur of the television and the other person breathing (while you study his profile and wonder which parent is responsible for that fantastic nose) are rare for me.
“I guess I’ll make us lunch.” I stand and start for the kitchen. “Do you have a preference?”
I stop short when Dax shoves his fingers into my back pocket and tugs me backward a few steps. His tug becomes more of a pull, but I recover my balance and end up sitting on one of his heavy thighs. When I turn my head, I’m looking down at his upturned chin, narrowed eyes, and sensual smirk.
“Graceful,” he says.
“Always.”
“Maybe I should call you Grace.”
“Maybe you should.”
We smile at each other.
“I’m glad you’re here, Princess.”
“Even though you planned a fishing vacation all by yourself?”
“Even though.” He dips his head into a nod.
I believe him. He hasn’t minced a word with me yet. It doesn’t seem to be his style.
I think I might be in way over my head.
Dax has yet to come up for air.
I set a quesadilla in front of him a few minutes ago and I’m watching, eyes wide, as he gobbles the last of it while moaning “Mmm” as he chews. He’s not covered in food or anything. In fact, watching him eat is almost erotic. Memories of the other night and him doing some fantastically fine dining cause a shudder to tap-dance down my spine.
“Want mine?” I tip my plate, which holds the other half of my own quesadilla. They were big. I’m too full to eat the rest.
He doesn’t ask if I’m sure, simply takes my plate and wolfs my food down as well.
“That,” he says around a final bite as I clear the dishes, “is what we need at McGreevy’s.”
“McWhat-ys?”
“One of my bars.” He crumples the paper napkin and drops it on the breakfast bar, propping himself on two thick forearms. “Redoing the menu. We have very limited offerings.”
I love the way he talks. Truncated sometimes, dropping the pronouns and then interspersing phrases like “limited offerings.”
“Can I buy the recipe from you?”
I eye him over my shoulder from the sink and let out a disbelieving chuckle.
“First off”—I shut off the water and dry my hands—“there is no official recipe. I threw it together. And second, of course you can’t buy it. I’ll give it to you, though.”
His face crinkles like I’ve seriously confused him. “Don’t give it to me.”
“Why not?”
“I paid good money to a local chef to provide me with menu options and none of them is as good as your quesadilla.”
“I threw it together,” I repeat. Then I shrug, uncomfortable with the compliment. “It’s a hobby.”