Page 82 of Loaded

“Like a meatball?”

“On top of spaghetti,” I say with a smile. “Did your mom sing that song?”

“Seren did.” She pops a profiterole into her mouth as well.

And then I wait for the verdict.

“Well?” she asks.

“I liked it.” I shrug. “But I’m not the critic here.”

She grabs another one.

“I’ll take the consumption of more as high praise.”

“I mean, shouldn’t it be good, though?” She pops the second one in her mouth. “I don’t even want to think about what these cost per bite.”

“I think I need to come try something made by this famous Seren, if this place can barely compare.”

“Maybe you should,” she says. “She’s actually instituting this new thing, Sunday dinners. If you can behave, I might take you along some time.”

I hold up both my hands. “I’ll be on my best behavior, I swear.”

Once I’ve paid the check and we’ve walked out to the car, I ask, “So? What was it like being on the other side for a night?”

She rolls her eyes. “The Red Horse doesn’t even have one Michelin star.”

I walk toward her, and she backs up against my car. “Having been a customer of both,” I say, “I think the Red Horse is definitely better.”

“You do?” She looks up at me, her chin lifting a hair more. “Really?”

I drop one hand to her left, my palm flattening against the top of my car. “The food’s more to my liking,” I whisper. Then I drop my other hand on the right side of her. “But the service at the Red Horse?” I shake my head slowly. “Not even comparable.”

“Really.”

I nod slowly. “In fact, there’s this one waitress I just cannot get enough of. I actually forced my entire board to relocate our weekly meetings to her restaurant just so I’d have an excuse to see her.”

She arches one eyebrow. “You didn’t.”

I lean closer still, until our faces are less than two inches apart. “Don’t tell her, but I’d eat cardboard if she brought it to me, and I’d pay top dollar for the privilege.”

She presses one hand against my chest. “Easton.”

“Again,” I whisper.

“What?” Her eyes widen.

“Say it again.”

The slow smile that curls the corners of her mouth upward is delicious. “Easton.”

I drop my lips against hers, and thankfully, they’re a far cry from cardboard. They may be the softest thing I’ve ever felt. I can still taste a hint of cream puff, and I can’t help sucking her bottom lip into my mouth just a little.

She moans.

I pull her against me, flipping around to lean against the car myself, but it’s short. Way too short. I’m basically sitting on it, which is distracting. Why don’t I have a taller car? I’m buying nothing but SUVs, starting tomorrow.

Even the failures of my sportscar can’t distract me from Bea’s mouth—her little soft sigh, her hand, fisting around my shirt. “You—yes,” I hiss.

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