Page 54 of One Week Wingman

I pause, caught up in his blue eyes. “I…” I’m interrupted by a loud rumbling noise. From my stomach. I blush. “Uh, sorry,” I say, looking away.

Sebastian grins. “I should have realized that four-course meal wouldn’t be enough for you.”

“Hey!” I elbow him lightly. The truth is, I could barely eat a bite, I was paying too much attention to how good Sebastian looked, sitting right across from me.

He stands. “Come on,” he says, offering his hand. “Let’s get you fed.”

We find the kitchen is deserted, but Sebastian moves around like he owns the place, turning on lights, opening cupboards, and still humming the tune we played.

I hop up on a counter and watch him as he assembles ingredients beside the stove. A loaf of French bread, butter and cream, some fancy jam…

“What are you making?” I ask.

“The ultimate midnight snack,” he replies, with a boyish grin. “PB and J.” I laugh. “Just wait,” he adds, “You’ve never had it like this before.”

“Is that a promise?” I find myself teasing.

Sebastian’s gaze flashes hotly. “Damn right it is.”

My stomach turns a slow flip. And if I thought Seb was impossibly sexy before, well, now I get to watch him cook, too.

He whisks eggs and cream and soaks the bread. “French toast,” I realize.

“I learned it in Paris,” he says, placing the slices into a sizzling pan of butter. “They eat it as a dessert there, as God and nature intended.”

“When were you in France?” I ask. I know Sebastian has travelled all over for his work, and I feel a little envious of his globe-trotting adventures.

“This time, just last year. I spent a week in the vineyards of Bordeaux, with—” he stops, then quickly changes the subject. “Here, taste this.”

He brings me a spoon of jam, he’s somehow made into a rich, bright sauce. I taste it, trying not to think about the end of that sentence.

Of course he was with a woman. This man has spent every other week of the last few years with a woman of some kind—gorgeous, talented, sophisticated…

“Well?” Seb asks.

“Delicious,” I reply honestly, and push those treacherous thoughts aside. I’ve always known what kind of playboy Seb is. And if it was one of those women who taught him to do that flexing thing with his fingers…

Well, I can’t complain now, can I?

Sebastian flips the French toast onto a plate, and spreads it with peanut butter, topping with the berry sauce. “And voila,” he says, proudly presenting it.

The dish looks incredible, and I eagerly take a fork and dig in. “Oh wow,” I manage, between mouthfuls. “You win. Promise fulfilled.”

Seb chuckles. “Darling, I’m not even close.”

I look up. The wolfish expression is back in his eyes again, making my blood run hotter. Suddenly, I’m hungry in a whole different way.

“You haven’t had any,” I say softly. I slip down from the countertop, and offer him a forkful, lifting it to his lips.

What is it about the two of us and food? The last time I fed him, we wound up nearly necking in my mom’s kitchen, and here we are again: Seb leaning closer, lips parted—

At the last second, I pull the fork away and kiss him instead.

“Mmm…” Sebastian groans softly, licking over my bottom lip. “God, the taste of you, Roxy…”

“What are you talking about?” I whisper, feeling bold. “You haven’t tasted me yet.”

Seb hardens against me, and I feel a rush of power that my words have such an effect. “Is that a promise?” he asks, holding my gaze.

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