Page 23 of Fastlander Phoenix

“I was going to cook you chicken parmesan, but challenge accepted. I will cook lasagna if you come over and let me repay you for hauling my car and saving my life and stuff.”

He grinned. “Are you luring me to your lair?”

“I’m trying,” she teased. “You keep playing hard to get.”

God, she loved his laugh.

“You know, sirens tempt men to their deaths,” he said.

“Lucky for you, my singing sounds like a drowning cat, so no seduction to your death here. I will make you so full you question your whole life, though. No help for it. I have no concept of quantity. It’ll probably be enough burnt lasagna to feed you and a hundred of your friends.”

“What can I bring?” he asked, leaning his knee on the side of the trailer.

“An open mind and fake compliments. I’m serious when I say I burned the last lasagna. It’s my Achilles’ heel. It’s the one dish that has kicked my ass. It’s supposed to be easy. My grandmother is rolling over in her grave just thinking about me trying to cook it again.”

“Were you close to your grandma?” he asked curiously.

“She was the best.”

“Then you owe it to her memory to get that first experience out of your head and do her recipe justice. Whether I show up or not.”

“Thinking about standing me up already?”

“Maybe. I’m a player, remember?”

“Ugh, players are the worst.”

“So terrible.” But his grin said he was still teasing.

“Fine. I will cook lasagna, and a side salad and vegetables. I will put some extra bait on this hook and let you know that I will also be making my famous from-scratch macaroni and cheese for you to take home and snack on later, and trust me, it ain’t like the boxed kind you’ve been shoveling into your bachelor mouth.”

“Siren,” he uttered low, narrowing his eyes.

“Macaroni and cheese,” she sang, heavy with the shaky vibrato at the end, but couldn’t finish without busting out laughing.

“There it is,” he said, his eyes going soft. “I like when you’re smiling.”

“Not sobbing? I hear that brings all the boys a-runnin’.”

“It does not. We don’t know what to do with those emotions.”

“Well, luckily for you, I only cry once a week.”

“Once a week?” he asked, looking horrified.

“In my defense, I watch sappy love-stories on TV. They get to me.”

“I watch war movies with guns and death. I haven’t cried in twenty years.”

She made aclicksound behind her teeth. “Red flag—not emotionally intelligent. We are not a match. Seduction averted.”

He was biting back a smile. Softly, he repeated, “Seduction averted.” He looked back at his truck, and then to her. He looked like he wanted to ask her something, but didn’t.

She let him sit in the awkward silence for a couple of breaths before she asked, “What?”

“How did you get here?” he asked.

“Oh, I ordered a rideshare.”

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