Page 52 of Sirens
“Enlightening?” he echoed, the word hanging in the air like a challenge. “Do tell.”
“Let’s just say”—she leaned in, her breath warm against his ear—“that some appetites are best explored without restraint.”
“Sounds like a recipe for trouble,” he managed, his voice rougher than he intended. His heart raced as the heat of her closeness seeped into his skin.
“Or for an unforgettable night,” she countered, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper.
Trent swallowed hard. Their banter was spiraling into uncharted territory that made every nerve in his body sing.
The complicated martini wasn’t the only thing tonight with a hidden agenda.
“Townsend Harbor’s got more secrets than a nun’s knicker drawer,” she said with a playful glint in her eye.
“Never pegged you for the religious type,” Trent quipped, his attempt to ride the wave of innuendo feeling more like a dog paddling in the deep end.
“I don’t get on my knees for just anyone,” she replied, her voice dropping to a husky pitch that sent a jolt straight to Trent’s core. “Though I do tend to call God’s name at the most important parts.”
He cleared his throat, trying to refocus.
Maggie tilted her head, the corners of her mouth twitching upward. She reached out, brushing her fingers against the fabric of Trent’s shirt as if by accident, but the touch lingered, sending a ripple of electricity up his arm. She was casual, yet deliberate, like a cat pawing at a ball of yarn, unraveling him one thread at a time. She leaned forward, her eyes shining with unspoken promises as they locked on to his.
He detected a hint of mischief there, a silent dare for him to dive into the unknown waters she was charting. “You know, Trent, sometimes the best way to understand a subject,” she murmured, her breath tickling his skin, “is to get up close and personal. To explore and understand it. Learn what makes it hum…”
Trent’s breathing sped up as if he’d been caught in a foot chase, the kind that ended with hands on knees, gasping for air. Only this time, his racing pulse wasn’t from running down a suspect—it was all her.
Maggie, with her wit sharp enough to slice through a man’s defenses, had him teetering on the edge of a cliff called “What the Hell Are We Doing?”
“Michaels,” he managed, the word half prayer, half curse as he willed his body not to betray the heady rush of desire.
“Call me Maggie,” she said, her voice low and smooth like whiskey over ice. “Everyone else does.” Her hand rested mere inches from his own—a distance that might as well have been a chasm and a hairsbreadth all at once.
He was about to close that gap, to bridge the space with a touch, when the mundane ding of the oven timer cut through the thickening air. Trent blinked, the spell momentarily broken, as Maggie sprang up to tend to her culinary surprise.
“Just wait until you get this in your mouth.” She pulled out a tray of flaky pastries, their golden crusts promising a taste ofthe divine. “Pork rolls,” she announced with a flourish, setting the tray on the counter. “It’s from this little Polish/Puerto Rican bakery on Long Island—you wouldn’t believe it. They were featured on that show… What’s it called?Shitty Snack Shacks?Fucky Food?”
“I don’t watch food on TV I can’t immediately eat.” Trent’s lips quirked into a reluctant smile despite the simmering tension.
He watched as she fussed over the rolls, her movements deft yet unnecessarily dramatic, as if she were presenting a treasure unearthed from a culinary crypt.
“The place looks like a front for a Mafia burial ground, but those pork rolls are divine. They could start wars, end feuds, or, you know…” She trailed off, shooting a coy glance his way.
“Or make a man lose his damn mind?” he suggested, his words threading the needle between jest and earnest.
“Something like that,” Maggie replied, her laugh ringing clear and bright. “Careful, though. They’re hot.”
Trent watched as she plated the pork rolls, her movements disjointed, betraying inner turmoil. The flush on her cheeks wasn’t just from the heat of the kitchen; it was a bloom of embarrassment or excitement—he couldn’t tell which. A fine sheen of perspiration had begun to glisten on her forehead, and she shot furtive glances at the crackling fireplace like an Old West gunslinger ready to draw.
“It’s heating up in here,” he said. “Why don’t you take off your coat?”
Her response was immediate and over-the-top—a swift clasp of the belted jacket as if it were a life vest on theTitanic. “No!”
“Okaaaay…” Trent replied, eyebrows raised. “You sure? Because you look about two seconds away from spontaneously combusting. And if Vee had a lot to say, and the oven stays on, you’ll probably just dehydrate.”
She let out a breath that could’ve powered wind turbines, and her shoulders slumped in defeat, hair framing her face like flames licking the edges of paper. With a sheepish yet rueful grin, she admitted, “I invited you over to seduce you. I thought you were clever enough to pick up on that.”
Trent stood frozen, arousal mingling with confusion. “Seduce me?” He was as dumbfounded as a rooster finding a peacock feather in its coop. Did that make him the cock? “I’m sorry, Maggie, but I read this all wrong.”
“Didn’t you hear what I said about the pork rolls?” Maggie retorted, gesturing wildly as if directing airport traffic. “They’re basically a love letter stretching from New England to the Atlantic City boardwalk. Plus, ‘pork’ is practically a euphemism for what I was hoping we’d?—”
