Page 40 of A Not So Merry Rescue
As many times as she’ll agree.
Hell, they don’t all have to be tonight.
We’ve got more days, and until she tells me no, I’m taking what I want.
“Do you stare at all the women in your kitchen?”
“If they look like you, I would.”
She faces my way, one hip propped against the counter, her arms crossed over her chest. Today’s hoodie depicts a bookshop logo, one I’ve never heard of. I wonder if it’s local to where she lives. She’s paired it with skinny jeans form-fitted to her legs.
“Should I take that as a compliment?”
“For sure. Especially because you’re the only woman ever in my kitchen. Outside of my family.”
Shock crowds her face. “No way.”
“Way.”
“This kitchen?” She points to the floor, in case I misinterpreted the question.
“Yes.”
“And you’ve lived here for how long?”
“Four years.”
She whistles. “None of your one-night stands?” A lack of judgment hides in her tone, which I appreciate.
“No.”
“No girlfriends?”
I scratch my head, recalling whether they had ever been here. “Luna preferred to stay at her house. The cabin was ‘sketch.’ Her word, not mine.”
Willa laughs at my impression, and the light chords unlock more emotion in my chest. She looks around. “Yeah, I can see it. Though it’s very much growing on me. Minus anything related to Christmas. What do you usually have over there?” She motions toward the offending Christmas tree with a sneer.
“A bookshelf.”
“I can get on board with that. What’s your favorite book?”
“Grab the bottle of wine with the pink sticky note from the pantry and pour us each a glass while I plate dinner.”
It warms my heart how she doesn’t question my suggestionnor call me out on not answering hers. I don’t intend to ignore it. We’ll continue the conversation over dinner.
Willa returns, her eyes analyzing the label of red wine. “Seriously? How long has this been labeled for this meal specifically?”
“Since you agreed to steaks. It’s not like I’m anal.”
Her nose scrunches. “Have you looked up the definition in the dictionary? There’s most likely a picture of your pantry as a visual representation.”
Removing the bottle from her hand and setting it on the counter, I can’t fight the urge to grab her from behind and wrap my arms around her, trapping her in an embrace. She squeals, my dick further encouraged by the noise.
“You think I’m anal?” I peer down at her.
“Ridiculously so. I’m flabbergasted you don’t have labels on the shelves in the pantry.” I squeeze her tighter, eliciting a yelp. “Uncle,” she wheezes. “Uncle.”
I only let her go because if I don’t, dinner will get cold with the things I want to do to her. I’m turned on by her making fun of me, and it’s impossible to think straight, let alone do much of anything else.
