“I want to be wherever you are.”
“We should probably wait to see how tomorrow goes.”
“Nothing is going to change my mind about you.”
Her head tilts to the side, sending a cascade of curls rippling over her arm. “What if I’m not ready to settle down and start having babies?”
“We can wait a year or two on the babies.”
Her nose wrinkles, and she laughs. “And what does a big, rich financial adviser like you want with a little country girl like me?”
I love her flirting. I love answering her questions. I can answer all of them. “Well, let me see… For starters, you’re incredibly talented. You’re funny… smart—”
“How do you know I’m smart?”
“You’re going out with me.”
“Ah!” She pushes against my chest. “Such a big head to go with your big…” Her voice trails off, and my eyebrows rise. Her eyes drift around the room as I wait to see how she’ll finish that sentence. “Apartment.”
“My apartment’s not so big, but something else is.” Diving forward, I press my lips against the warmth of her neck, making her laugh.
Her warm, soft body, her lips, the scent of jasmine, and the trace of her fingers along my collar has my cock growing thick. Turning my head, I find her lips again, parting them and sweeping my tongue inside. She sighs, and I know she’s feeling the heat between us. It’s always this way with us.
I’m about to lift her in my arms and carry her to my bedroom when the bell rings. Our shoulders drop, and our eyes meet.
She makes a teasing little sad face. “It smells really good.”
Stepping back, I slide my hand over the bulge in my slacks. “I’m having second thoughts about cooking.” I’d rather be fucking.
She hops off the bar, going to the cabinet and pulling down two plates. “But I can’t wait to taste your signature dish!”
Grabbing it with oven mitts, I place the glass dish on the top of the stove. It’s bubbling and golden, and it actually does smell good. She hands me a knife and spatula, and I cut out a large square, placing it between the two of us.
Angel freshens her wine and pours me a glass, and I lean on the bar where she’s sitting, holding a forkful of golden pasta in the air as she blows on it. Her pink lips pucker, and I do my best to tamp down my dirty thoughts.
“Ready?” She grins, holding it carefully towards my mouth.
“I made this for you.”
“But I helped make it better.”
I take a small bite, leaving the rest on the fork. Immediately my mouth is filled with cheesy goodness with a nice kick of spicy heat in the background. She puts the rest in her mouth, and covers it with her hand, widening her eyes and nodding.
“Damn, that’s good.” I reach for my own fork, cutting off another bite as she finishes hers.
“We made it better together.” A note of triumph is in her voice, and I like it.
It’s a good omen. It’s like us—I’m the raw ingredients, and she’s the color, the music and the flavor. Her phone buzzes, and she jumps off the stool fast.
“Oh, I lost track of time.” Running to the living room, she slings her purse onto her shoulder before stepping back to give me a kiss.
“Wait a minute.” I catch her arms, stopping her progress. “Where are you going, Cinderella?”
“That’s my car. I’ve got to get back before… anybody notices.”
“I thought you had an hour—”
“Including drive time.” She’s practically running out the door and pressing the button on the elevator. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yes?”
It opens quickly, and we step inside. She presses the button for the lobby while I stand beside her, tracing my fingers along hers as we descend. I consider pushing her against the wall and devouring her. She’s watching the numbers, her lips pressed together. They’re swollen and pink from my kisses and her hair is messy from my fingers in it. She looks amazing.
“I’ve decided to come early tomorrow.”
That catches her attention, and she rises on her tiptoes to kiss me as the door dings open. “Five thirty. No earlier.”
My hands are on her waist and I pull her back for a better kiss, a better taste of her mouth, like it’s a decadent dessert. “Five twenty-nine.”
With a touch of her hand, she skips out the glass doors to the waiting Lyft. I lean against the window watching as she speeds away.
Tomorrow everything changes.
6
Angel
Beto slides a cast iron skillet with tomatoes, chopped onions, chilis, and cilantro over the fire, and as usual, he’s wearing a white tank and dark jeans. His feet are bare on the beige stone floor, and my thoughts slip to Deacon last night. Both of them are strong and stubborn, but my sexy man treats me with respect.
“I think we got off on the wrong foot.” My brother stands at a stainless-steel Viking range with a spatula in his hand, the morning sun streaming through an open window. “Grab some coffee, and we’ll talk over breakfast.”
He still isn’t asking.
He’s still giving me orders like he’s some drill sergeant, and I involuntarily enlisted in his army. Still, the delicious aroma makes my stomach growl. I decide to accept his olive branch, despite how it’s offered. He is my oldest and only sibling after all. I guess he’s used to bossing people around.
“Need any help?” I step over to the coffee machine, putting a mug on the tray and dropping a pod in the slot before hitting go.
He grins, nodding toward the counter. “You could hand me two tortillas.”
A plastic bag of flour tortillas sits beside a toaster oven, and I take out two while he slides the red sauce to the side of his large skillet and cracks two eggs, frying them quickly.
I’m on guard, but I welcome a chance to sit down and chat with King Triton. Maybe it’ll shed some light on what he’s doing here.
Coffee made, I wait as he assembles two tortillas on plates followed by the eggs and the tomato sauce.
“One for you.” He hands me a plate sprinkling cilantro over it before letting go. “And one for me. Let’s eat.”
I follow him to the small table situated before a set of open bay windows. Birds chirp, and we have a beautiful view across his massive back yard, leading down to the lake.
The small cottage is toward the back. A gardenia bush is planted at the southern corner, and when I went yesterday to set up my art supplies, it smelled familiar, like my mother’s spirit was there. I wanted to spend the afternoon painting, but I had to finish Lo’s dress.
Beto places a mug of coffee on the table beside his dish before sitting. His knees are spread wide, and he attacks his food like he hasn’t eaten in weeks. I watch him a moment before taking a bite of my breakfast. It’s really delicious.
“So I’m not a seamstress or a babysitter or a waitress, but you’re a cook?” I can’t resist after the way he acted yesterday.
He lifts his chin after shoveling a large bite of eggs into his mouth. “It’s possible I spoke too fast. You’re right. Family is different.”
My eyebrows almost meet my hairline. Did he just say I was right? This is not how I expected the day to begin.