Page 22 of The Texas Sterling Collection
“Mars?” I chuckled. “I’m fine. Just thinking.”
“Well, stop thinking and come over by the grill.” He beckoned with a side-jerk of his head. “I promise I won’t bite.”
I tensed.He wants me next to him.Being near Wyl would only make me want him more. “I’m fine. I don’t want to crowd you or make you uncomfortable.”I don’t want to touch you because touching you makes me crazy.
Wyl gave me an eye. “Come over here.” He reached out a hand and flapped his fingers in invitation.
I hesitated.Did giving in to my feelings lead us to real problems? The biggest hurdle was having a relationship with a student. But damn, this guy did it for me. I couldn’t stop my attraction to him. Fuck it!“Okay.” I stepped forward and took his hand. He tugged me to him, and I glanced at his face. The butterflies returned before our hands parted. As our eyes met, something flashed across Wyl’s face before his attention shifted to the steaks. I shoved my hands in my pockets and inspected the steaks.
“Like what you see?” Wyl glanced at me.
Do I ever!I cleared my throat and focused on the grill. “Those are t-bones, aren’t they?” The aroma made my mouth water.
“Porterhouse. How do you like yours?”
Wyl raised one eyebrow in anticipation of my answer. Given his ease at the grill and knowledge of the cuts of meat, I figured him to be a rare to medium-rare guy. Since we established a history of ribbing each other, I aimed for a bit of fun. I blurted out with as much confidence as possible, “Well done. The more done, the better. No pink. Next stop…beef jerky!” Glancing at Wyl’s face, I couldn’t contain my laughter at his expression of horror.
“What’s so funny?” Wyl groused, sporting a deep frown.
I spoke through my waning laughter. “I figured you for a rare steak guy,” I elbowed Wyl. “To be honest, I prefer medium rare to rare, myself. My friends say I eat my steaks still mooing.”
The frown vanished, and his face lit up. “Okay, smart ass…you got me. And what an interesting way to describe how I like my steaks cooked. Still mooing works for me.” Wyl pointed to the patio doors with his tongs. “Would you step into the kitchen and bring the platter from the counter?”
As I turned, I glanced down. A telltale bulge in Wyl’s jeans caught my eye. Did I imagine things? Perhaps he wanted more from our friendship. I hurried inside, adjusting myself to hide my excitement before picking up the platter. Tonight, in bed, I would need playtime with my only sex partner for the last decade, my trusty right hand.I stepped back out to the patio and handed Wyl the platter.
“Thanks, Roddy.”
I stared at Wyl, open-mouthed. How did he learn my nickname?
Seeing the shock on my face, Wyl cleared his throat. “Sorry. I hope I didn’t offend you by calling you Roddy.”
My open mouth morphed into a grin. “No, the name is fine. Nobody calls me Roddy but my sister Jean and now you. I like the way you say it.” My nickname in Wyl’s husky voice—music to my ears.And the teeth of commitment buried deeper in my brain.
Wyl winked and smiled. “The nickname fits.”
The combination of Wyl’s seductive grey-green eyes and his sexy smile sent sensations to my groin, and my knees weakened again.A fat lot of good my morning running routine is doing. I suppose my knees haven’t liked the exercise.I reached for the island to steady myself.
“Are you okay?” Wyl grabbed my arm.
“I’m fine, thanks. The grilling aromas make me hungry.”
Wyl released his grasp. “Should I carry you into the kitchen, old man?” He grinned.
I rolled my eyes. “Light-headed for a second, but I’m okay now.”
Wyl plattered the steaks and turned off the grill. “I need to feed you. C’mon.”
I trailed Wyl into the house, trying but failing to avoid looking at his ass. I slid the door closed and followed him into the kitchen.
Wyl set two plates on the breakfast bar and pointed to a drawer. “How about grabbing forks and steak knives for us?” He took the salad from the refrigerator and set the container on the bar. Salad dressing bottles clinked together as he took them out. “Any salad dressing you prefer?” He held out the bottles for me.
I shook my head. “No bottled dressing for me, thanks. Too much fat and salt. The lemon I brought is my healthy alternative.”
“Oh yes…the lemon.” Wyl grabbed the lemon from the refrigerator and tossed it to me.
I flinched at the toss and missed the catch. I remained hopeless at catching things, a checkmark in thehe’s a dorkcolumn. The lemon thumped to the floor and rolled. “Shit. My hand-eye coordination is lousy.” I leaned down to pick up the yellow citrus.
Wyl leaned down, too, and our heads collided.
