Page 141 of Return To You

“That’s making me hungry,” I say.

Ethan pulls out a butcher block I never use. “I’m cooking.” He starts chopping onions, the sound making Damian appear out of nowhere, then pulls chicken thighs out of the fridge. Looking at Damian, he takes a pack of ham out and throws him a piece.

“I’ll catch up on emails.” I bring my laptop to the kitchen counter and start working, getting lost in work while Ethan does whatever he set out to do. There’s a lead from Alex for a building in another town. I decide to leave that aggravation for another day, and switch to the notifications of our latest reviews, all five stars. I take a few fulfilling moments answering them, then send congratulations to my staff. I flag invoices for tomorrow, then focus my attention on Ethan.

The chicken thighs are marinating in a mixture of olive oil, finely chopped onions, and spices from small glass containers I almost forgot I had. In a frenzy of nesting, I let Chris convince me to buy those, but never used them. It’s a good thing spices have a long shelf life.

I nudge myself behind Ethan and grab two plates. “Want me to start the grill?”

He pulls me into him. “Let me do this.” He plucks the plates from my hand, sets them on the countertop, and softly rubs his nose against mine and, god, why does this feel so erotic? “I want to take care of you. You go sit down before it starts raining.”

I turn around to the deck. The table is set, candles and all, all the way to a sweaty jug of margarita.

“Hurry up,” he growls in my ear. “Weather’s gonna start any moment, and I been meaning to serve you a drink, rub your feet, and grill for you all day. Don’t want a couple rain drops ruining it.” He peels himself away from me.

“All day?”

He narrows his eyes on me. “Way more than all day,” he mutters. Grabbing the chicken and a colorful salad I’m only now seeing, he swats my butt gently. “Go.”

Fifteen minutes later, I’m biting into the most tender, tastiest chicken I’ve ever had. I have a nice little buzz going from the margarita I drank way too fast. “I mean, you ever get tired of being a super, secret whatever-it-is-you-do, you could definitely work with your brother.”

Ethan stops with his fork midair. “That the alcohol talking?” he asks with that adorable smile.

I’m not tipsy enough to forget our earlier conversation. “Yesh. Drank the margarita too fast. The chicken’s great though. Like I said, something to fall back on if… never mind.” I don’t want him thinking I changed my mind about him not leaving the Air Force. I didn’t. “I was just paying you a compliment.”

He smiles at me. “Thank you.” His eyes dance on my face, like he’s thinking something good but doesn’t want to share with me.

“You’d be bored here. Don’t you dare.”

“You’re right. I’d be bored grilling all day for strangers. Wouldn’t mind cooking for you every night, though.” Those mischievous eyes again. What is he up to? I can’t say that his talk about cooking for me isn’t making me melt at some very intimate level.

I frown at him. “That’s the alcohol talking.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Ethan,” I warn him.

“I said I wouldn’t mind it.”

You said you wouldn’t mind it like it was the only thing on your mind. Like it was a lifetime goal. Like cooking for me every night was the end-all, be-all. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Those damn eyes dancing on me again. “Now eat.”

We eat in silence for a while, looking at Woodbury Knoll seemingly swerving as the trees sway under the wind. It’s warm out, with that sense of foreboding and release that precedes the rain.

Then fat drops start hitting us, and we scramble to our feet.

“Shit,” Ethan growls and picks up both our plates and cutlery. I follow with the margaritas and the candle, then we both run back out to grab the pillows as the rain intensifies.

I can’t believe how quickly and forcefully the storm is hitting us. “I’ll check the windows,” I say as Ethan runs back out to deal with the barbecue and the umbrella. As I shut the bathroom window, I see him on the other side of the house, closing my car windows. By the time he’s back inside, he’s soaked. “They weren’t kidding,” he says, looking at the weather radar on his phone screen. “Shoulda paid closer attention.”

He strips to his underwear and throws his shorts and T-shirt in the dryer.

Rain is now pummeling my little house, the barreling sound on the roof so loud it’s almost scary. I glance at his bike, outside in the pouring rain. “Is it going to be alright?”

“We’ll find out. No big deal.”

I should build a garage.

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