Page 12 of End Game
“So you probably don’t agree with dipping it in ketchup either?”
I just look at her, making her laugh. She flips on the lights in the kitchen and retrieves a bottle of red wine from the fridge.
“I did a whole piece on dipping sauces on my blog,” she says, bottle in hand. “I tried a Chimichurri, an ancho-chile-almond sauce, this fruit one that had plums and cherries that was supposed to be out of this world.” She wrinkles her nose. “Turns out, I just like ketchup.”
“I just like that you’ve thought so much about it,” I chuckle.
“I’m not a normal girl. You hear men complain all the time about their girlfriend not knowing what they want for dinner. Look, I knew what I wanted for dinner at lunchtime because I’ve been thinking about it since then.”
Her face has been stripped of makeup, a set of diamond stud earrings shine from her earlobes. She looks fresh, clean, so natural. My chest tingles like I’ve just taken a shot of Jager, and I haven’t had any damn Jager all night.
She bends over and picks up a napkin off the floor. Her cleavage is on full display, her shirt scooping so low it’s obvious there’s no bra on those babies.
She lifts a glass from the counter and pours a glass half-full with wine. “Want some?”
“I definitely want some,” I croak, licking my lips.
She rolls her eyes. “Wine, Best. Do you want some wine?”
“I better not,” I say. “Have any lemonade in there?”
“I do.” She sets down the wine glass and grabs a clean one from the cabinet. “I’ll pour some and head to the porch. Why don’t you go wash Crave off yourself.”
“How about I pour the lemonade and you wash me?”
“I can’t deal with you,” she laughs and leaves the room.
I watch her go, her ass swaying to the beat of a song I can’t hear. Leaping off the stool, I head to the shower. She’s right—I gotta get something off, but it isn’t Crave.
CHAPTER 6
LAYLA
The lightning bugs flicker away on the other side of the screens that separate the porch from the outdoors. Warm, summery air whispers through the little room off the living area as the ceiling fan whirls overhead.
It’s a perfect summertime night at the lake house, the water gently brushing the shore just a few yards away.
My laptop sits untouched on the loveseat beside me, discarded after a couple of hours of my brain’s refusal to think about anything other than Branch Best. Once Poppy went to sleep—claiming this place is the most relaxing place she’s ever been, I tried to work on a couple of blog posts for next week. I got nothing except a complete description of Branch in the text box which looked a whole lot more like a sex box by the time I wrote “The End.”
The depiction, although thorough and glowing and including a prediction of what the rest of him might look like, does nothing to accurately sum up the way he looks standing in the doorway in nothing but a pair of steely grey shorts and a smirk that takes my breath away.
“Hey,” he says finally, shoving off the doorframe. His biceps flex, his stomach muscles rippling as he makes his way towards me. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
“I wish you were,” I sigh. “I can’t get anything done.”
“I’ve heard that.” He slides into the wicker seat across from me and pops his bare feet up on the coffee table that separates us.
“You’ve heard what? That I’m lazy today?” I say, trying to ignore the way the air in the room just shifted like it’s accommodating his presence.
“No. That I’m distracting.”
“You say that like it’s a badge of honor.”
“It is.”
“Maybe they mean you’re annoying.”
He grins, knowing damn good and well that’s not what anyone means. Settling into the cinnamon-hued cushions, he changes topics. “So, why can’t you work?”
