“It’s a talent.” After a beat of silence, he asks, “Do you ever create recipes for the bar here?”
“No.” I can’t keep the gruffness out of my voice. “King Tad wouldn’t let me do something as significant as create a recipe to serve in his bar.”
“How do you know what ‘King Tad’ would say, Princess? Have you asked him?”
“No, but—” I make a choking sound and gesture like it should be obvious why not. “You saw him. He fired me.”
“You’re not a timid creature, Becca.”
I wind the dish towel in my hands and avert my gaze. “It’s just a hobby.”
He reaches an arm over the breakfast bar and offers his palm. I take one step, then another, and place my hand in his. Warm hands. Strong hands. He gives my fingers a gentle squeeze while I look at him. I like looking at him. The strong cheekbones, the contoured shape of his firm mouth. There’s the barest shadow of a dimple in the center of his chin—a shallow one virtually invisible beneath the scruff he hasn’t shaved yet.
“Write it down for me,” he says. “Unless you’re going to pitch it to your brother. I’ll compensate you. I promise.”
He lets go of my hand and I lower my elbows onto the countertop between us, leaning closer, towed in by his strong presence as much as his genuine offer.
“No compensation necessary.”
There are a few inches between our mouths, and for my kiss to successfully land on his lips, either I’ll have to hoist a leg onto the counter between us—which, let’s face it, seems desperate—or he’ll have to lift his fine ass off that seat and meet me halfway.
He does the latter. Pushing off his chair, he briefly touches my lips with his and then moves away. I watch him disappear in the direction of the bedroom and want to follow him so badly, I have to give my raging lady hormones a talking-to.
He returns a second later carrying a paddle and a feather duster. Oh, wait. That’s a laptop.
Well, a girl can dream.
He sets the sleek silver laptop on the counter where I’m leaning and slides it in my direction. “Are you Mac friendly?”
“Yes. I took graphic design classes before I went to dance school.”
His grin spreads slowly, and the southerly parts of me tingle.
“Of course you did.” He steals another kiss and pats my ass before moving to the living room and retaking his seat on the couch.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He doesn’t answer, so I open the laptop. I’m met with a password box. “It’s locked. Did you want to—”
“Eight-zero-eight-four-seven,” he says.
I type in the number and like that, I’m in. I watch the back of his head for a moment, wrestling with the idea that he rattled off his password to a virtual stranger.
He trusts me with his five-digit code.
I mean, it’s not access to a vault containing millions of dollars, but a password is significant, right? I only recently met Dax, and he’s handed me the keys to his virtual city. Meanwhile my brother doesn’t trust me to execute even the simplest of tasks.
Like my job.
I’m not the fastest keyboardist, but I peck out the recipe, trying to guesstimate the amounts of the ingredients. As I type, my mind replays each knife slice, ingredient, and spice I pulled out of the cabinet. I had access to a full kitchen at the main office, so I brought fresh cilantro, lime and avocado, and seasonings like cumin and smoked salt.
I sneaked a few extras onto the order last week when I was craving some really great Mexican food. There’s only so much barbecue a girl can eat before she craves lighter fare.
At one point I stop what I’m doing and measure a teaspoon of cumin. Then a half teaspoon. I never measure, just sort of throw it in. After rifling through the drawers, I determine that there is no quarter teaspoon, and the tablespoon measure is missing too. I’m forced to fudge the numbers, but I’m pretty sure I’m close.
I carry the laptop into the living room, rest it on the coffee table, and sit next to Dax on the sofa.
“Do you have a grill at McGreevy’s?” I scroll through the recipe to the numbered instructions. “Ideally you would have a grill for those great char marks on the chicken. You could even use blackening season for a Cajun flair if you wanted to.... Oh! Cajun seasoning...”
When I notice his smile, my words taper off. He’s so good-looking that it hurts a little to look directly at him.
“What?” I ask.
“In between dancing, graphic design, and rental cabin management, did you also take cooking classes?”
I shake my head.
“Interesting.” He goes back to fiddling with the items in his tackle box.
“Did you ever take a fishing-lure-making class?” I shoot back.
He lets out a soft laugh. “If my dad’s instruction counts. He taught me.”
My heart squeezes. Dax’s face softens whenever he mentions his dad. He misses him.
“That counts,” I reply quietly.
Dax’s eyes appear bluer in the lamplight. The room is dim, thanks to the constant cloud cover and never-ending rain.
“I’ll test the recipe again if you don’t mind eating more quesadillas. How’s that sound?”
He answers by leaning forward and capturing my lips in a warm, slow, drugging kiss. As my eyes sink shut, I’m hyperaware of him—of the tickle of his fingertips along my cheekbone before he sifts them into my hair. Of the firm heat of his tongue as it slides along mine. I lean forward to claim more of his incredible mouth.
When he breaks away, I whisper, “This feels a lot like wooing.”
“I thought this was you coming to me.” His voice sounds as dazed as mine.
“Agree to disagree?” I ask with a grin.
He delivers another electric kiss, his hands going to the hem of my shirt and tugging it upward. I hoist my arms over my head to help him, because seriously, am I going to resist a chance at more sex with Dax?
No.
No, I am not.
His kisses sear my neck as he sweeps my bra from my arms. I lean into him as his palms cup my breasts. I reach for the waist of his jeans, my fingers fumbling for the stud.
Our breathing grows erratic, our kisses more frantic.
“Condom?” I suggest.
“Tackle box,” he answers. His lids are lowered, his smile more of a smirk.
I pull my chin back to focus on his face. “Boy Scout.”
“I’m not that good, Princess.” He slides a hand into the back of my jeans and grips my ass, giving it a hard squeeze. “Take these off and don’t be slow about it. Then climb onto my lap. I’ll do the rest of the work.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I like the ‘sir,’ ” he says as I stand from the couch and strip off my jeans. He works his own jeans down his legs. “Keep the ‘sir’ part.”
“Poor Dax.” I offer a pout as I roll my thong to my ankles. His eyes lock onto my naked body, so I jut one hip to give him a better view. “Don’t you get any respect at home?”
Something feral leaks into his expression and instead of teasing me back, he tugs me by the hips and kisses my belly button before lifting my leg by the ankle. “How high up can you lift this leg?”