Page 122 of Coco and the Misfits

“I wanna help.” He gives me that boyish, dimpled grin that makes me go weak at the knees, grabs the potholders from my hands and takes the lasagna out of the oven. “Where shall I put it?”

Did he intend that pun? My face flames as a few answers leap to mind, answers of where he could put it and make me moan in pleasure…

“Here.” I lead him to the table that I’ve set for two. No candles. No fancy romantic touches.

I’m trying, okay? Trying not to take this too seriously, not to put my heart on the line again, not right away.

But when he sits down across from me, the air is sucked out of the room. Who needs flowers and candles when you’re spending the evening with the most gorgeous alpha in existence?

Damn, I think, June will be so jealous.

Could that be why she has withdrawn? Until she tells me what is really going on, what’s happening with that pack and why she has to keep it all a secret, I’m going to live in doubt.

“You smell delicious,” he says.

“It’s the lasagna.”

“Trust me, I can tell the difference between a hot girl and a hot lasagna dish.”

“A connoisseur.” I bite my lip and look down to hide my blush. “Maybe I should shop the idea around. Eau de lasagna. I bet it would be a success.”

“Only if you wear it.”

Such a silly thing to say, and we both crack up, but pleasure fills me anyway.

Such a silly, flirty, mad thing to say.

“I’ll serve the wine,” he says, unscrewing the top. “Fuck, I miss corks.”

I giggle. “This is progress, Zach. Don’t diss it.”

“I also like screwing.”

I roll my eyes. Giggle some more. I feel like a schoolgirl. Serving him a piece of lasagna, I stick my tongue out in concentration, and when I look up, I find his gaze fixed on my mouth.

“Coco…”

“Let’s eat before it gets cold.”

“I’d rather eat something else,” he says and I gulp.

No. Bad girl. We shall not jump the bones of the gorgeous alpha tonight. Repeat after me. We shall not jump anyone’s bones. Tonight is for conversation.

I wonder if his knot has inflated for me already? If he’s fully hard under the table, if he’s uncomfortable and hot for me in his pants?

How the hell am I supposed to eat without choking when my thoughts are going down the drain and right into the gutter like that?

“Eat,” I say, fighting a smile when he obediently takes his fork and digs in. “Good boy.”

He chews a forkful, his gaze locked on mine. “Did you just call me a good boy?”

“Is that a problem?” I smile around my fork tines.

“That’s usually my line.”

“Good boy or good girl?”

“I’ll be a good boy for you,” he breathes, putting his fork down. His blond lashes are long, shielding his eyes, but even so, I can see how bright they are. That grin… damn, but it’s hot like the bowels of hell.

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