“Yup,” I say, keeping a perfectly straight face as I grab a clean pan for the scallops. “It’s not like that crazy cat Muffin—the one who’s supposedly the reincarnation of her sixth husband, Earl. That would be crazy.”
Her lips twitch. “Yeah… crazy,” she echoes softly, though her tone says she’s genuinely wondering if she should be concerned.
I bite back a grin, pretending to focus on the pan. “You’re learning all kinds of things about me tonight, huh?”
She narrows her eyes. “Like what exactly do you say to this ferret?”
“Oh, you know, he just gives me pep talks. Boosts my confidence before games.”
“Uh-huh.” She stares at me, speechless for a long beat and I’m unable to hide my smirk. “Jaxon…” Her eyes dart toward the counter, like she’s searching for something to throw. “You had me going for a minute there.”
Her laugh bursts free, and I can’t help but join in. I lean across the counter and catch her lips in a quick, soft kiss.
“For a hard-hitting journalist,” I murmur, still close enough to feel her breath against my skin, “You’re pretty gullible.”
She smacks my shoulder lightly. “I am not. That could’ve been totally believable. You athletes are a strange bunch.”
“Maybe,” I say, backing up to grab placemats and utensils, still smiling. “But at least we’re entertaining.”
“Entertaining, yes,” she says with a grin. “Sane? Jury’s still out.”
I gesture toward the table. “You want to eat at the island or set up over there?”
She glances at the small round table tucked by the window. The glow from the hanging light turns her hair gold, her expression is softer now, less teasing. “Table’s good,” she says quietly.
Something in the way she says it—gentle, sure—hits me right in the chest. I nod, reaching for the plates, and as the scent of garlic and scallops fills the air, I realize this easy laughter, this warmth in my home, the easy conversation with an incredible woman is exactly what I’ve been missing.
But I’m not looking for anything more and neither is she.
14
Rowyn
“Jax, I don’t even know what to say.”
I set my fork down, my gaze lifting to meet his across the small table. The golden light from the pendant above flickers over his face, catching the mischievous curve of his mouth.
“That’s saying something,” he teases, leaning back in his chair. “Coming from the girl who always has an opinion on everything.”
I laugh, soft and a little breathless, and wipe the corner of my mouth with a napkin. “True. But this meal…” I lean forward, lowering my voice like I’m confessing something scandalous. “Don’t tell your mom, but it was better than hers. You, Jaxon Sheffield, are a man of many talents in the kitchen.”
“Hey,” he says with a wink that hits low and hard in my stomach. “You don’t have to sweet-talk me. I’m already a sure thing.”
“Cocky much?” I shoot back as he uses my words against me, but the smirk tugging at my lips betrays me.
He wipes his mouth and I stand, gathering both plates to busy my trembling hands.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“You cooked. I clean.” Why do I sound like a squirrel jacked up on energy drinks? The water hisses as I turn on the tap, waiting for it to warm, for something—anything—to steady the rush inside
“Set those plates down right now.” The low rasp of his voice comes from just behind me, and my entire body stills. I feel him before I see him—his heat, his scent, the rough whisper of his breath against the back of my neck. My heart trips into a sprint.
“I’m cleaning up,” I manage, but it comes out more like a gasp. “You cooked, I clean. That’s fair.”
He steps closer. The air thickens. “Set those plates down,” he says, voice low and firm. “Now.”
My breath catches. That tone does mysterious things to the needy, traitorous place between my thighs.