Page 77 of The Promise Of You

“What are you doing?”

“Starting on our recipe.”

“Chloe.”

“Mmm?”

“Salamanders are a protected species.”

“They are? Why?!”

“Because…” Hell if I know. I go for the obvious. “They’re going extinct.”

“Well, that’s because they’re lazy. Humans are never going extinct because we’re always working-working-working. Salamanders should get a hint.”

My mouth twitches, but I want to keep this going. Chloe on a black humor streak? Priceless. “Salamanders aren’t lazy. They’re… animals. They just are.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “Your sign says they’re lazy.”

I give up, bend my head, and pinch the bridge of my nose, the low chuckle inside me building up to full-blown laughter. My whole body shakes, and my eyes tear up.

“It’s not funny!” She mock-slaps my shoulder, and I throw my head back and laugh out loud. It’s not that funny. I just need the release.

My laughter shows no sign of receding, and she turns to me, her knee pressing against my thigh, and she mock-slaps me again. This time I’m prepared, and I grab her hand. My laughter dies down instantly, and I twine her fingers in mine.

Our eyes lock while my mouth dips to her hand and my knee nudges between her legs.

“You’re right, it’s not.” I run my lips on her knuckles.

Give it a little tongue.

She lets me, her knees squeezing mine for a beat.

I continue. “I bet you salamanders are bony. No flesh. Just as gross as licking your fingers.” And I let her go, but not before I see the heat of lust in her eyes before they turn murderous on me.

She whips her face from me to hide her emotion and stands. Good, because I’m getting a hard-on, and I need to hide that from her.

If she’s into me, she’s going to have to show me.

“Fine. No salamanders.”

Fuck. “What happened to me telling you your fingers are gross?” I stand and grab both our cups.

She moves to the refrigerator. “What about that?”

“Aren’t you upset?”

She’s rummaging in the fridge, her back to me. “No. My fingers aren’t gross. I know it. You know it.” She pauses to let that last bit sink. “You’re just being an asshole.”

“Good,” I say, running our cups under water.

“Why?” she asks, this time clearly annoyed.

“Just got another reason to send you flowers.”

She startles and keeps her head in the fridge. “We should really get to work. Here’s what I’m thinking. We start with the comfort foods, and we elevate them.” She takes out a long, covered dish, square containers, a block of cheese, and goes back to the fridge.

“Chloe, there’s something I need to tell you.”

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