Page 18 of Hot Buttered Rum

On my way back to the kitchen, I tried hard to imagine what Turner might be up to on a Saturday night. A man like him surely wouldn’t just sit alone on his boat drinking beer. Then the image of a beautiful girl sitting cozily under a blanket with him at the stern of his boat dropped into my head. I shook it like an Etch-a-sketch to erase the image. Even if he was out with a beautiful woman, I certainly didn’t need to envision it.

The aroma coming from the oven was nothing short of heavenly. I plucked the oven mitts off the hook by the stove and opened the oven door. Hot air blasted my face. Once the initial shock of heat had dissipated, I could once again open my eyes. There were two individual pot pies, complete with golden brown crusts and buttery liquid bubbling through the knife holes on top. It seemed strange that Coco would have made herself a pie before leaving for the night.

I reached in and cupped one pie in the mitts. I carried it to the kitchen island and returned for the second one.

I turned around just as the kitchen door opened. It seemed as if Coco would be joining me for dinner after all. I lowered the hot pie onto the counter. “As usual, your timing is perfect.”

“Thanks,” a deep voice said from behind.

I spun around and had to work hard not to show how ridiculously thrilled I was to see Turner. He had cleaned up from his day at sea. His long, dark hair was still wet. He’d brushed it back behind his ears so that his gray metal plugs glittered under the kitchen lights. With the dark hair, suntanned skin, heavy black stubble on his chin and the crisp black t-shirt pulled tight over his muscular shoulders, he looked every bit the dangerous rogue. Especially standing in the center of Coco’s white marble and stainless steel kitchen.

“If I didn’t already know you, I think I might have swooned with fright at the sight of you.”

He walked around to my side of the counter. “Do I really look that scary?”

“No,” I said too loudly for the amount of space between us, “not scary. Maybe just a touch menacing.”

He stepped closer. I could smell the soap on his skin. “Menacing? Since you do know me, in fact, I’d say we’re way past ‘know’, maybe you like that idea. A touch of menace, I mean.” He reached for my hand and held it up. Then he twirled me around as if we were on a polished dance floor. “Just so you know, that dress works on you.”

I felt my cheeks warm and could do nothing to stop the blush. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d blushed this often.

He pulled me and I fell against him. Turner stared down at me with dark blue eyes. “That dress has got my mind reeling about just what kind of panties you’ve got on underneath.”

I smiled up at him, my body already reacting to just being in his arms. “How do you know there are any panties at all?”

“Fuck, woman, what are you trying to do, make me take you right here on the kitchen island?”

I laughed. “Too bad you don’t know of a real island, preferably a deserted one. Then I might even be inclined to tell you exactly what I’m wearing under this dress.”

“I don’t have that kind of patience.” He reached down and pushed his hand under my dress. His finger hooked around the band on my panties. He pulled it back, and I chirped in surprise as he let it snap back against me.

“Disappointed that I’m wearing panties?” I marveled at how quickly I’d fallen into heavy sexual flirting. It was like Turner had found some invisible switch that only he knew how to turn on.

“Nope. In fact I’m looking damn forward to taking them off.”

“I might let you.” I motioned with my head toward the pot pies. “Should we eat first?”

“We can try. Not completely sure how far we’ll get though.”

I walked to the cupboard for two plates. Knowing full well that Turner was watching me, I made sure to lift my hands up extra high. The flirty hem of the dress slid up my thighs as I took hold of the plates. I turned around and met his hungry gaze.

He was still staring down at my legs. “Yep, that dress works on you just fine.”

I put a pot pie on each plate, and we carried our food out to the dining room. “There’s wine too.”

“What? No barrel of rum?”

“That reminds me? Where’s your winged friend?” I laughed. “I guess you really could call him your wingman.”

Turner put down his plate and pulled out a chair for me.

“Wingman, hell. He’s much better at stealing the hearts than I am. I left him on the boat. I didn’t need him trying to horn in, or should I say beak in, on my date.”

“So this is a date?” I poured myself another glass of wine and filled a second glass too.

“Good food, a beautiful woman and that dress? I’d categorize it as a date.” He picked up his glass and clinked it against mine. “And a damn fine one too. Especially considering what I have planned for dessert.”

I took a sip of wine. “How did you know about the apple cobbler?” I teased.

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