Page 41 of A Not So Merry Rescue
“Pour the wine and set the table.” My voice is raspy, lower than usual, spurred on by adrenaline and arousal. It will be a miracle to make it through dinner without ravaging her.
“K.”
“Are you always so amenable to what’s asked of you?”
She peers over her shoulder. “When the man asking treats me like you do? Guess so.” Her attention transfers to choosing silverware.
“Noted for later activities.”
The temptation to touch her too strong, I smack her ass as she passes me.
“Eep,” she squeaks. “Watch it. I’ve got steak knives in my hand.”
I fix the plates, piling on noodles, steak, and veggies. Hereyes grow into saucers when I put the plate down in front of her before taking my seat. “This I will miss when I leave here. This looks and smells delicious, Beckett.”
“It’ll taste delicious, too,” I state, not ashamed to stroke my ego. “Oh, and to answer your earlier question, anything by James Patterson or John Grisham is my favorite book.”
“By definition, ‘favorite’ implies one.” She cuts her steak into bite-size pieces, stabs a piece with the fork, and puts it into her mouth. “Oh, damn.” Her eyes sink closed, her expression sated. “This is so good. The flavors pop, and the steak’s cooked to perfection. How am I ever supposed to leave this place?”
I’m sure she doesn’t mean the last part literally, but damn if it doesn’t inflate my already swollen ego.
“Stay” is on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it back. It’s not even a slight possibility. Not in any universe.
“Glad it lives up to the hype.” I take a bite, curious to taste how it came out. One touch of the steak to my tongue, and I’m in heaven. I don’t always get it right on the first try, but this one I nailed. It’s a replica of the picture, and the flavors are exquisite, the garlic, rosemary, and butter creating the perfect sauce.
“Beyond the hype. I’ve been to five-star restaurants and never experienced a steak so delicious. Kudos to you.”
My chest puffs with her exuded praise. “Thanks.”
I savor the meal, the time spent with Willa high on my current priority list.
Eventually, she gets back to the book discussion. “If you could only read one book for the rest of your life?—”
“Not a fair question. When am I ever going to be put in a situation to only readonebook?”
“Everything in your house burns down except that book.”
“Morbid.” She shrugs, rolling noodles on her fork. “I’d go to the library or read on my e-reader.”
“Your e-reader was lost in the fire. The library flooded, all the books ruined.”
“The local bookstore.”
“Bankrupt.”
“Online bookstores. Goodwill. Thrift stores.” The answers come fast, no deep thinking involved.
“All ran out of money and out of business.”
“You’re evil. But also, wouldn’t that mean that you’d be out of a career?”
The comment perplexes her. “Hmm. Good point.”
“What would you do if you weren’t a writer?”
“A detective.” She rattles it off without a pause, clearly having given it some thought.
“Solve all the crimes. I can see it.”
