“There was a cow. A small one.”
“Those are called calves.”
“Details.”
She steals another fry, and I catch her wrist gently. “You know there’s a whole basket right there,” I say, but I’m smiling.
“Yours taste better.”
I look down at our hands—my fingers wrapped around her delicate wrist, her pulse fluttering under my thumb. The contact sends heat racing up my arm, and from the way her breath catches slightly, she feels it too.
“Take whatever you want,” I say, releasing her before I do something stupid like trace that pulse point with my finger.
“Dangerous offer,” she murmurs.
The words come out softer than she probably intended, and suddenly we’re staring at each other across the small space between us, the conversation around the table fading into background noise.
“Yeah,” I manage. “It is.”
The server—Amy, who’s been finding increasingly creative reasons to check on our table—returns with another round of drinks.
“How’s everyone doing?” she asks, her attention immediately focusing on me. “Mitchell, are you sure I can't get you anything else?”
Before I can respond, Clare’s hand slides up my arm to rest on my shoulder, her thumb brushing against the base of my neck in a distinctly territorial gesture.
“We’re good,” Clare says sweetly. “Thanks, though.”
Amy’s smile falters slightly as she takes in Clare’s possessive touch and the way I instinctively lean into it.
“Right. Well, just let me know,” she says before leaving.
Clare doesn’t move her hand. Instead, she settles more comfortably against my side, her fingers playing with the collar of my shirt in a way that’s driving me insane.
“Marking your territory?” I murmur close to her ear.
“Maybe.” Her voice is light and teasing, but there’s an underlying current that my body takes note of. “Is that a problem?”
“No,” I reply honestly. “No problem at all.”
The truth is, I’m loving this.
The conversation flows around us—updates on mutual friends, gossip about who’s married, divorced, or moved away. But I’m only half-listening because Clare keeps doing things thatscramble my brain. She runs her fingers through her hair in a way that makes me want to bury my face in it. She laughs at Jake’s terrible jokes like they’re actually funny. She absently traces patterns on my thigh under the table while she talks.
I don’t think she realizes she’s doing half of it, which makes it both worse and better. I don’t know anymore.
“I should probably eat something,” she says eventually, eyeing the menu. “All this beer on an empty stomach is a bad idea.”
We order loaded nachos to share, and when they arrive, Clare attacks them with the focused intensity she brings to everything. Yet she keeps offering me bites, holding chips loaded with toppings up to my mouth as if feeding me is the most natural thing in the world.
“You don’t have to—” I start.
“Open,” she commands, holding a particularly perfect bite near my lips.
I open my mouth, and her fingers brush my bottom lip as she feeds me the chip. The contact is brief and innocent, but it sends electricity shooting straight to my core.
“Good?” she asks.
I nod, unable to trust my voice.