by Nina Lindsey
When he was at the counter, his forearms were the star of the show. Whether he was slicing a mushroom or shaking a pan on the stove, his corded forearms tensed, the sinews and tendons flexing with every motion under his taut skin. Light shone from above, turning the dark hairs to gold.
A little fire sparked to life in her belly. She’d never thought she could get turned on watching a man cook—but then again, she’d never watched a man cook before. As Grant tossed vegetables into the pan and sliced through a thick loaf of crusty bread, she couldn’t imagine any other man in the world cooking quite like this.
Delicious smells filled the kitchen. He grabbed a white plate from a stack and slipped the bubbling omelet and three sausage links onto it. He pulled golden-brown toasted bread from the oven and slathered it with butter.
After setting the plate in front of her, he held up a hand. “Wait.”
Her stomach growled impatiently.
He handed her a fork and knife. “Eat.”
Rory dug eagerly into the omelet, inhaling the scents of melted cheese and butter before putting the first forkful into her mouth.
“Wow.” She spoke while chewing the delicious bite. “This is amazing.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full.” He leaned against the counter and folded his arms. “I thought your taste buds might be deadened from all that junk.”
“Surprise.” She sank her teeth into the thick toast. “Do you cook like this for yourself?”
“I usually eat whatever’s leftover in the kitchen.”
She nudged the plate toward him. “Have some.”
“It’s all yours.”
“I knew there was a reason I liked you.” The food was so good and Rory was so hungry that she didn’t bother minding her manners—she shoveled the omelet into her mouth, wiped strings of cheese off her chin, licked crumbs from her fingers. Grant set a frothy glass of milk in front of her, and she downed half of it in three gulps.
He put two more slices of thick-cut buttered toast and two sausages on her plate without her needing to ask. By the time she was scraping her plate clean, she was drowsy and delightfully full.
“That was awesome. Thanks.”
“You should eat healthier.” He set her empty plate and glass in the sink. “My father was a workaholic…well, he still is, but he had to make some changes after he had a heart attack.”
“Is he okay now?”
“It was years ago, but yeah, he’s better. My point is that you need to take care of yourself.”
“Well, owning a restaurant is no low-stress job, from what I hear.”
“No, but the Mousehole was already established when I bought it. Most of the staff stayed on. I made a bunch of changes, but it wasn’t like starting from the ground up. And I still work out and eat right, that kind of stuff.”
Rory rested her chin on her hand as he started washing the dishes. He always wore T-shirts at the Mousehole, usually dark green or blue, but this shirt was a faded, russet-red that had been washed so many times it was practically a second skin, the soft material shifting and tugging with every movement. His drawstring pants rode almost dangerously low on his hips, and by the way…was he wearing anything underneath?
She wiggled on the stool and pressed her thighs together. An even more urgent question appeared in her head. Had he wondered the same thing about her?
“What about a girlfriend?” The question popped out. Heat crawled up Rory’s neck.
He shot her a look over his shoulder. “What about a girlfriend?”
“As far as anyone can tell, you haven’t had one since you moved here.”
“I didn’t know people were speculating.”
“Oh, please.” Rory tugged her nightshirt farther down her thighs. “You’re one of the most eligible bachelors in a fifty-mile radius. People have been speculating about you from day one. Oh. Is that why you didn’t want anyone to know you’re Edward Taylor’s son?”
He gave a nonchalant shrug, even as tension threaded his frame. He set the dishes in the drainer and turned to face her. “Partly, yeah. I also don’t see much of my family anymore, so it’s easier not to be Edward Taylor’s son.”
Rory frowned. “Why don’t you see them?”
He expelled his breath in a sigh. “Unfortunate history. It’s not so much that I care if people know…I am who I am, but being a Taylor doesn’t have anything to do with my life here.”
“And if people do know, they’ll probably look at you differently,” Rory guessed.
Grant studied her through a hooded gaze, then nodded slowly.
“You didn’t,” he said.
“I didn’t what?”
“Look at me differently.” He dried the knife and pan and returned to put them in their places beside the counter. “When you figured out who I am. You’ve been a steady pain in my ass this whole time. Not a single blip on the radar.”
“I am known for being dependable.”
“With good reason.” He turned to face her, his eyes creasing with amusement.
“So why’d you ask me to pretend to be your girlfriend?” A pang of irritation shot through her. “Why not Madeline Fox, whom I’m sure you would never refer to as a pain in your ass.”
“I need reliable, not impulsive and unpredictable.”
“How do you know I’m not impulsive and unpredictable?” And how do you know that she is?
“You work at Sugar Joy five days a week, two morning shifts and three afternoon shifts.” He ticked the reasons off on his fingers. “You have weekly dinner nights at your mother’s every Wednesday, you have drinks with your sisters and friends at the Mousehole every Friday, and you spend the rest of the time on your computer. Not a lot of room for impulsivity, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t ask you,” Rory grumbled, unexpectedly stung by his assessment of her life.
“Yeah, you did. Don’t tell me I hurt your feelings.”
“Please. You could never hurt my feelings.” She crossed her arms and glowered at him. “It was impulsive of me to agree to go with you to the wedding.”
“You agreed because I’m giving you what you want in exchange.” He stepped closer, his green eyes searing right through her. “If you’re being impulsive, you don’t have a plan or agreement in mind. How did you get cheese in your hair?”
Lifting his hand, he pulled a strand of stiff, melted cheese off her hair.
“I impulsively threw it in there.” Rory was still sulky. Maybe because she was beginning to think he was right.
“You’re mad at me.” He wrapped her hair around his finger and gently tugged.
“Well, considering you just told me I’m a monotonous, unexciting, pain in your ass who should be thrown in the gallows for my eating and sleeping habits, I think you have some kissing up to do unless you want me to renege on our agreement.”
Grant smiled slightly, interest sparking in his eyes. The scent of cooking still clung to his shirt—butter, herbs, peppers.
“Kissing up, huh?” A faint husky note roughened his voice.
Her heart jumped. She shot him a cool look from beneath her lashes, acutely aware that not only did he still have her hair looped around his finger, he’d lowered his palm to the side of her neck. His thumb rested right at the hollow of her throat.
Once again, she could not believe that she had never before noticed how big his hands were. He could cover every inch of her skin with a few sweeping glides of his palms. She attempted to control her breathing.
“In the form of an apology.” She tilted her chin, feeling every inch of her nakedness under her shirt. “From what I can tell, owner of the Mousehole, you’re no spontaneous thrill ride yourself.”
A smile tugged at his mouth. “I’ll have to prove you wrong.”
“Good luck.”
“Only you could make that sound like a challenge.” He rubbed his thumb against her throat.
“It was.”
“I accept.” He skimmed his gaze to her lips.
&n
bsp; Anticipation flicked through her. She’d never seen eyes that shade of green before—like a leaf or a clover, or those grass-like things he’d chopped and added to the omelet. He could hypnotize her with those eyes. Maybe he was. She was getting a little dizzy. Or maybe that was from having a real food for the first time in days.
Had they ever been this close before? He was a solid wall of male strength—all muscles and sculpted tendons and whatever else men like him were made of. Testosterone and kerosene.
He stood like some sort of architectural support system—his feet planted securely apart, his body as stable as a pyramid, holding her in place by the weight of his hand alone.
Wait a second. This was Grant. Her sparring buddy who hated her phone, grumbled about her love of fried cheese curds, and kept a singing fish on the wall just to spite her.
Why was she suddenly getting all soft and fuzzy inside because he had his hand on her neck? And because he was looking at her like he wanted to eat her up? And because he smelled so good that she wanted to bury her face in his shirtfront and inhale a deep lungful? Or twenty.
He edged his body between her knees. Her pulse pounded. She didn’t know what to do with her hands. She lifted them almost as if she was going to touch his chest. Then she dropped them back into her lap and curled her fingers into her palms. He swept his thumb over her throat in a slow, sweeping movement that she felt clear down to her toes.
She was totally unaccustomed to men like him. Her previous boyfriends, not that she’d ever called them that, had been from the opposite end of the spectrum—thin, pale computer geeks with poor eyesight who took the term social awkwardness to a new level and considered her a weird, mutant species.
Grant didn’t look as if he thought she was weird or mutant. He looked at her as if he thought she was…edible.
A shiver raced down her spine. Her breathing went totally awry. Her nipples hardened against her shirt. She desperately wanted to squirm. He dropped his gaze to her mouth again and slid his hand up to cup her chin, tilting her face toward him.
“What’re you doing?” Her voice came out on a whisper.
“Proving you wrong.” He lowered his head toward hers. “Welcome to a spontaneous thrill ride.”
His lips touched hers. Before she could even grasp the reality of Grant kissing her, everything went tense and bright, like golden threads were spinning in her veins.
She forced her hands to unclench and curled her fingers into his T-shirt. The warmth of his body heat clung to the soft cotton, and her knuckles pressed against his hard abdomen. He increased the pressure of the kiss, one hand under her chin and the other coming to rest on her bare thigh.
Heat flamed inside her. Spontaneous thrill ride. All right, then. She could prove she was impulsive, too. She opened her mouth and tightened her thighs around his hips at the same time.
A shudder rippled through him. He eased his tongue into her mouth, alternating the intensity of the kiss from gentle to rougher and back to gentle again. His breath was warm. He was hard. The evidence of his arousal was a thick, heavy ridge that Rory could practically feel throbbing between them.
Her heart hammered. She drove her fingers into his hair, holding him against her. She had never been kissed like this before.
Spontaneous thrill ride aside, Grant kissed her to perfection, as if he knew exactly what she liked and wanted—easy, hot, slow. He teased her gently, didn’t hold her too tightly, and asked for rather than demanded her response.
And, oh god, she responded. Every nerve ending flared like a Fourth of July sparkler, showering her with stars. She stroked his tongue with hers, licked his lower lip, trailed her mouth over his stubble-rough jaw. A hot, restless desire pulsed through her, inciting the urge to slide her hand right into his pants and—
“Wait.” Pulling in a breath, she pressed her hand to his chest. His heartbeat thumped against her palm.
He tightened his grip briefly on her thigh before backing away, his breathing hard. A flush crested his cheekbones.
They stared at each other, a touch of shock threading the air. Without his body heat, Rory’s skin prickled with cold. She tugged her shirt farther down her thighs and struggled for another breath.
If his kiss was a thrill ride, what would sex with him be like? A rocket launch to another stratosphere?
She’d never considered herself to be particularly adventurous, but at the moment she was ready to leap into zero gravity and start exploring brand-new worlds. With Grant.
And…reality check. Right now.
“Good to know you can rise to a challenge.” She forced a smirk, pushed herself off the stool, and started toward the door.
“Rory—” A rough note edged his voice.
“Thanks again for the food. I’ll be ready to go by noon.” She hurried back to the safety of the cottage.
She’d better get her shit together fast. Twice in one week now, she’d run away from him, all flustered and hot. If she kept unraveling every time he touched her, she’d never be able to convince anyone that she was his girlfriend.
That was their agreement, after all. A game of pretend. Her body would do well to remember that.
Chapter 5
Grant threw his travel bag in the car and slammed the trunk. Despite a three-mile jog and some heavy lifting at the gym, he was knotted with tension. After his encounter with Rory in the kitchen last night—well, early this morning—he hadn’t been able to sleep at all.
Which might have been for the better since no doubt he’d have dreamed about her. Not chaste dreams either. He felt the hot, erotic images seething just beneath his consciousness, waiting to break through when his guard was down.
His mind would flood with images of Rory in her gray Byte Me shirt that didn’t conceal the curves of her breasts. He’d had a terrible time trying not to stare at her long, bare legs and an even worse time trying not to wonder if she was wearing underwear.
She wouldn’t be wearing anything in his dreams, though. In fact, she’d pull her shirt over her head and stand naked in front of him, all pale curves, hard pink nipples, and smooth skin.
When he’d kissed her last night, he’d expected her to taste sharp and fiery, like pepper. Instead, kissing her had been like diving headfirst into a sweet, tart meringue that melted on his tongue and incited a greedy craving for more. And more. And more.
He let out his breath in a rush. Stupid of him to have kissed her. It’d make things weird between them, and he couldn’t afford weirdness this weekend. Maybe he should apologize or—
“You have to get into the car to drive it.” Rory’s voice sliced through his thoughts.
He looked up to find her striding toward him from the cottage, a travel bag in one hand, a plastic cup and straw in the other, and a paper fast-food bag under her arm.
Despite the evidence of culinary garbage, his insides clenched at the sight of her in torn jeans, a brown leather jacket, and a green shirt that somehow made her eyes bluer than ever. Her hair hung in damp curls around her shoulders, and her face had a freshly scrubbed, pink sheen.
“You’re late.” Tightening his jaw, he pulled open the passenger door for her and unlocked the trunk again.
“It’s noon.” She handed him her travel bag.
“It’s ten past noon.” He tossed her luggage in the trunk and eyed the fast-food bag. “What’s that?”
“Beef burrito and chicken enchilada. Cherry coke to wash it down.”
“You’re not eating that in the car.”
She frowned. “So you’ll have to wait until I finish it, and then we won’t leave until twenty past noon.”
Grant cursed inwardly. “Don’t spill anything.”
“I’m a very neat eater.”
Right. She’d gobbled up his omelet like a starving woman, getting cheese in her hair, butter on her cheek, and milk on her upper lip. He’d gotten incredibly turned on just watching her.
“Let’s go.” He strode to the driver’s side. “I want to avoid traf
fic.”
“You need me to program my GPS?” Rory leaned into the car to put the drink in the cup-holder and the bag on the floor.
“I do not.”
“Did you eat lunch? Sorry, I should’ve asked if you wanted me to get you something.”
“No. Get in the car.”
“Hey.” She grabbed the open door and pulled herself up onto the running board, shooting him a glare from across the car roof. “Is this how it’s going to be? You’re all irritable and annoyed because you started something last night that we can’t finish? Don’t give me that shit, Grant. A hot kiss doesn’t negate the fact that I still hate your singing fish and think you’re a disgrace to society for not owning a cell phone. But I’m putting all that aside this weekend to pretend I love everything about you. So I’d be most appreciative if you’d start acting as if you like me in return.”
Twin blue flames flared in her eyes. Sunlight sparked off the car roof.
“Get in.” He pulled his keys from the pocket of his jeans.
With a huff, she swung herself into the car and slammed the door. He got into the driver’s seat and started the engine.
Rory shoved the seatbelt lock into place and folded her arms over her chest. Grant guided the car onto Starfish Avenue.
“I don’t need to act as if I like you,” he said.
“Whatever.”
“I do like you.”
Surprised silence for an instant before she muttered another, “Whatever.”
But this time, there was a smile in her voice. Okay, not exactly a smile, but…less of a frown.
His shoulders relaxed. Even though she was irritating, he’d always felt at ease with her. Aside from being a no-bullshit straight-shooter, Rory was one of the few women who hadn’t hit on him over the years or, worse, tried to finagle something from him. She didn’t want anything…except to see him get rid of his singing fish, which was probably one of the reasons he kept the piscine warbler around.
He started toward the coastal highway leading north. He’d called his mother to tell her he was bringing a date to the wedding, and her response on his answering machine had been predictably delighted. I cannot wait to meet her!