Page 51 of Sirens
“Ha-ha, very funny, McGarvey.” The flush on her cheeks deepened to ruby, but her laughter rang genuine. “It’s—uh—fashion, not function.”
“Sure, sure,” he drawled, stepping closer. “You look like you’re about to spontaneously combust, though. It’s warm as the oven in here. How ’bout you take it off?”
Maggie fanned herself theatrically with one hand while the other jerked a shaker with all the pornographic suggestion of those homoerotic Shake Weight adds from back in the day. “Listen, I’ve been practicing, and you can watch me dominate this martini and eat your words.”
I’d rather eat yours.
Memories of her flavor, of the slick, hot, wet, delicious feast that was the confection of her body threatened to knock the starch out of his knees.
“Hit me with your best shot, Lady Mix-a-Lot,” he said, unable to keep himself from folding the towels in a more stackablemanner and finding them a secure place on the top shelf of the linen closet.
“Did you just dad-joke?” She snorted.
“No.” Looking down, he grimaced.Of courseshe didn’t fold her fitted sheets. She didn’t even attempt to do anything but wad them up in a wrinkle pile. How did she even function? “What’s in this recipe?” he asked, hoping to keep the conversation light and uncomplicated.
With a flourish, she recited the concoction she was crafting. “A splash of aged bourbon, a twist of lemon, a dollop of imported black forest honey, and a dash of bitters, the sweetness muddled by some brine from the olives—shaken, not stirred, to perfection, and whispered with my secret ingredient.”
“Sounds both sweet and dangerous,” Trent observed, watching her hands move with precision and confidence as she measured out the top-shelf vodka. “You know I have a taste for the finer things.”
“That’s why I picked this one,” she replied, meeting his eye with a challenge as she handed him the glass. “Thought it might be up to par for our resident alcohol aficionado.”
“Don’t go telling people that—it sounds like a fancy word for an alcoholic.”
She laughed as if he’d invented the idea of a joke and then held her glass rim to his for a toast. “Let’s see if it passes muster.”
The scent of citrus and spirits flirted with his senses. The first sip was bold, complex, and hit just the right notes, much like the woman who made it.
“Damn, Maggie, this is fire.”
“Do I get a good student gold star?” she said with a wink, leaning closer into his space, heat radiating between them like the promise of a summer desert monsoon. “I was kinda hot for teacher.”
Nearly choking on his next sip, he felt some of his chill slipping as he let her fire that flirt across his bow without an answer. “What smells so delicious?” he asked, glancing at the oven to avoid the lift of her sly smile.
“It’s a surprise,” she teased, her voice low and playful. “And slow down there, deputy, this isn’t just any drink—it’s got enough kick to make a mule jealous.”
“Good thing I’m not a mule, then,” Trent shot back, raising his glass in a mock salute before taking another sip. The liquid courage was smooth but packed a punch, warming him from the inside out.
“All right, spill it,” he urged, setting down his empty glass on the coffee table. The flirtatious tension between them was palpable, an electric current that charged the air with expectation. “What did Vee have to say about our town’s risqué history?”
Maggie rested a hip on the counter, the pose doing something rude to his loins. “Weeeell,” she began, “Vee is a font of information and advice, I’ll tell you that much. And somehow the accent makes the dirt sound even dirtier.”
“Yeah, no, British people suck. They’re always naming things after their lady parts. Like Fanny. And Regina, which is not pronounced how you would hope it would be…”
They shared a laugh made slick with social lubricant.
Maggie arched an eyebrow, leaning in closer. “And here I thought Townsend Harbor was all apple pies and church picnics.”
“Oh, it is,” Trent replied. “But those apple pies are laced with hallucinogens, and those church picnics get realweird.”
“Apparently, there were a few more—ahem—‘pies’ being shared than we knew about.” Her laughter was infectious, and he found himself grinning like an idiot.
“It’s so impossible to turn down good pie,” he quipped, enjoying the way her lips curled into a smile at his pun. “I’ve never been good at it, as you know.”
“Deputy Trent McGarvey. Are you being bad right now?” she replied, her gaze lingering on him a moment too long. “Because what would happen if these walls could talk?”
“I’d just hope they’re discreet,” Trent said, chuckling. “Can’t have the town scandal overshadowing your podcast debut.”
“True,” she conceded, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear. “Though, I must admit, learning about everyone’s…appetites has been rather enlightening.”
