Page 17 of Wicked Me
He grinned, and it lit up his entire face so bright, heat crept up my neck. I quickly turned back to the tomato.
“Bacon’s its own food group.” He carefully arranged it in a frying pan. “You either like bacon or you’re wrong.”
“Oh?” I said and attempted to steady the knife in my hand. I sucked at cutting vegetables and fruit. I would make a terrible serial killer despite my know-how about dumping bodies. “And how do your arteries feel about the new food group pyramid?”
Another genuine smile. “I’m not dead yet.”
“Good to know,” I said over the roar of my heartbeat.
What the hell was wrong with me? Why was I getting all giddy about a boy turned man who was drunk out of his mind and three years younger than me? It couldn’t be because of the lean muscles in his arms that stretched and flexed as he prodded the bacon with a spatula. It couldn’t be because a section of his soft-looking blond hair skimmed the light scruff along his jaw. Nope. Couldn’t be.
“It’s like how you feel about books,” Sam said over the crackle of bacon.
“Huh?”
“Bacon.”
“Right. Bacon and books. Exactly the same,” I said, nodding. God, I really needed to concentrate better, especially with the knife in my hand. “So where did you get your, uh...” I spun a finger around my right eye.
“Oh, that?” he said like it was just a freckle. “Work.”
“And the bandage on your hand, too?”
He flexed his fingers around the spatula handle, frowning, and several beats passed before he answered. “Yeah.”
“Hmm.” I tried to imagine a way I could get a black eye at the Library of Congress, and I supposed it could happen if a box of books fell on my face. That happened once at the public library in Wichita where I used to work part-time. Instead of a box, though, it was a whole bookshelf, and instead of me, it was my boss. Still not fun. “Where is it you work?”
“Auto Tech over on Ontario Road.”
“So, is this a regular thing at Auto Tech? People getting black eyes?”
“No, jus’ me.” The bacon was really snapping now, but he didn’t even flinch as bacon grease flew in every direction. “This guy I work with decided he didn’t like the way his girlfriend was looking at me, I guess, so he decided to rearrange my face.”
I nodded at my tomato. “How nice.”
“I thought so, too,” Sam said. “Which is why I gave him a matching one.”
“Maybe it’s time to rethink the whole giving and sharing thing.” I set aside the mangled tomato slices and set to work toasting the bread. That I could do. Other than cutting things, I usually didn’t have trouble in the kitchen, except for those cans of dough that pop open. I couldn’t stand those. But cooking in my little apartment in Wichita meant slapping together a quick sandwich so I could do homework or write research papers.
“Maybe.”
“So was his girlfriend looking at you?” I couldn’t imagine a member of the female speciesnotlooking.
He shrugged. “I don’t really notice those kinds of things.”
Ha! Because it happened all the time? “Really? Never?”
“Most girls don’t interest me.” He switched off the burner underneath the bacon. “Hand me a plate?”
I followed the direction of his gaze and handed him a plate from the cupboard over my head. His fingers brushed mine as he took it, and I recoiled my entire arm away at the intense jolt buzzing through it. His gaze dipped down to my mouth, and when he connected with my eyes again, he looked hungry, and not just for bacon.
“And...” I swallowed. “What girlsdointerest you?” The question fell out before I could even think. I didn’t need to know the answer, but somehow I sure wanted to.
He leaned past me to the paper towel holder, filling the small space between his stomach and my hip with frenzied surges of energy. He tore off a paper towel, and when he straightened, he said, “Smart ones.”
The words sighed across the back of my neck. Goose bumps lifted over my skin. I clutched the edge of the countertop as I drew in a long, ragged breath.
“Are there a lot of smart girls where you work?” I asked, because I hadn’t embarrassed myself already.
