Page 15 of Sirens
For the first time since he’d extended the invitation, Maggie actually believed him. Because he seemed like exactly the kind of dude who was so picky about his shit that he’d even be willing to offer free instruction and consider it doing the Lord’s work.
Damned if that didn’t make her feel… What?
Messy. Lazy. Sloppy. Careless. Impulsive. Reckless. Thoughtless.
Words her army drill sergeant father had welded to her when, as a teenager, she’d lost interest in following the rigid structures he’d set forth like an eager shadow.
Fuck.
“And here I thought you had at least a passing familiarity with sarcasm,” she shot back after a pause several seconds too long.
A symphony of muscles flexed beneath his shirt as he set down a food-blogger-worthy charcuterie board on the polished granite counter. Piled high with gourmet cheeses, meats, and olives, the spread made her stomach rumble on sight as her salivary glands splooshed their metaphorical panties.
Please, God, don’t let him have heard that.
“Hungry?” he asked
Thirsty, more like.In every sense of the word.
“I’m good for now, thanks.” Another oft-repeated and totally inaccurate answer. “Maybe in a bit.”
McGarvey’s broad shoulders jerked upward in asuit yourselfshrug as he cut his eyes toward the bar. “Shall we?”
“After you,” Maggie said, hanging back a couple of steps for maximal gluteal admiration.
McGarvey brought the tray, goddamn him, sliding it onto the bar’s counter before swinging around behind it. “I’d offer to make you a drink, but…”
“That would defeat the purpose of my being here,” she finished for him.
“You catch on quick, rookie.” His wink shot a bolt of heat straight through her middle.
Had any other man called her that, Maggie would have been tempted to introduce his gonads to his epiglottis by way of her knee. But somehow, Trent McGarvey pronounced it with a casual affection that made her feel like the loose cannon in every buddy cop comedy ever.
Movies she’d gladly watch over a rom-com every day of the week and twice on Sunday. It was one of the few things sheand her father had ever done together that didn’t end with him volubly critical and her silently seething.
“Well?” McGarvey asked expectantly.
She blinked at him. “Well what?”
“You’re on the wrong side of the bar for bartending,” he said.
“Oh,” Maggie said. “Right. I knew that.”
She joined Trent behind the expanse of sleek black marble and polished cherry wood, the limited space forcing them to stand hip to hip.
Her hip to his thigh, anyway.
As she was absent her heels and stood a thoroughly average five foot four, the crown of Maggie’s head barely grazed McGarvey’s chin.
Or would, if he were to, say, fold his massive arms around her shoulders and pull her in for a long, lingering lip lock.
Maggie shoveled the unhelpful thought onto the growing pile and pushed the sleeves of her clingy cashmere sweater up her forearms.
“So, what are we doing first? Slicing lemon wedges? Making those ridiculous zest curls?” Maggie reached for the bowl of sunshine-yellow fruit on the counter but was arrested by a gentle grip on her wrist.
“Wait.” His fingers were long and dexterous, adorned with a simple silver pinky ring. She imagined those capable hands gripping her waist, moving lower to?—
Open a cabinet and withdraw an apron. One of those old-fashioned jobbers with big pockets and a pithy message that always said something like “Kiss the Cook.”
