Page 63 of Can't Always Get What You Want

“Okay, seriously,” I say finally, drying the last bowl. “How often have you done this?”

“Done what?”

“Disarmed a woman with your amazing culinary skills.”

He stares blankly, tossing the yellow terry cloth dish towel over one shoulder. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

Ugh! Is he going to make me say it?!

He is.

I can see it in his eyes.They’re sparkling.

“You know damn well what I’m getting at!” I laugh, tossing the sponge onto the counter and crossing my arms, well awarethat his eyes will go to my boobs. “You’re helpful. Funny. Competent.” I huff. “It’s so annoying. Is this a trap?”

“A trap?” he echoes, clearly delighted by my irritation. “Because I know how to clean a dish?”

Yes.

Yes, God dammit!

His grin is slow andwicked. “You think I’m sexy, don’t you?”

Yes.

I throw my hands up. “I walked straight into this.”

“You did,” he says, taking a step toward me. “But I appreciate it.”

“You’re so full of yourself,” I say, aiming for disapproval but failing miserably.

“Only when I’m right.”

His hand lifts, thumb brushing a streak of flour from my cheek. The touch is light, but my skin burns beneath it.

“Tell me more about those ghosts in your pants.”

Oh my God.

I notch my chin up. “I never said I have ghosts in my pants.”

“You’re right. What you said was, ‘I wasn’t joking when I said there was a ghost in my vagina.’”

Is that supposed to sound like me? “Please don’t ever quote me again. I was venting to my friend.”

He chuckles. “You were very passionate about there being a ghost.”

“I was not,” I say, mortified. “It’s a running joke I have with Poppy—one you were never supposed to see.”

He leans in just slightly, eyes locked on mine, amused and utterly unbothered. “Well, I did see it. And now I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“Stop thinking about my haunted vagina.”

His grin curves slow and smug. “Impossible.”

We’re standing far too close now, a breath apart. The kitchen hums around us, oven ticking quietly behind me, but all I canfocus on is him—his nearness, his voice, his scent—citrusy from the lemons and far too sexy.

“I have more questions,” he says. “Does the ghost have a name?”

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