Page 104 of Sugar Rush

I shrugged, thinking about how any time Seb cooked was a performance for others, and not for me.

“This is proper home food,” I replied.“Made with love.”I almost added,not that we’re in love of course, or that you love me,but I decided to just stop there before I dug myself into a bottomless pit of awkwardness.

“That’s a real shame, Maddie,” he considered.“You deserve to be loved.Spoiled.”

I luxuriated in his praise.As ever since the moment I’d met Rick, I was pulled into his orbit, unable and more importantly, unwilling, to break free.Everything about him dragged me closer, made me curious.

Made mewant.

“So do you,” I replied, brushing my hand over his leg under the table.

He rewarded me with a slow smile.The left side of his mouth ticked up before his smile spread, and it was sweet and sexy and unforgettable.Hewas unforgettable.“Well, lucky me, because youhavespoiled me.I’ve tried so many new foods and cakes since you got here.It’s about time I returned the favor.”

I squeezed his leg warmly, and we went back to our food.I wanted to show this glorious dinner the proper attention.

When we were finished, Rick cleared the plates away.“You want dessert?”

I looked up at him, startled.“You made dessert?”

He held both hands up, palms facing me.“Madeis a very strong word.I went to the Sureway on my drive back from my veteran support group and bought the best-looking tart I could find.”

“Er,second-bestif you please,” I joked, and Rick narrowed his eyes at me until he got the joke and then he laughed out loud, and happiness on him was devastating.His laugh was deep and his eyes crinkled at the corners and he wasbeautiful.

“Funny,” he said when he’d recovered.

“I try.”

“I did have a quick look in the imported food section to see if they had scones, but they didn’t, or, I didn’t think they did,” he said, his head in the fridge.

“Nah, they’re normally freshly made.They’d be in the bakery section if they were anywhere.My mum and dad have full on arguments about whether scones and biscuits are the same thing.My dad says you only dip biscuits in tea, and my mum says biscuits are things you eat with gravy.”

“Amen to that,” Rick agreed, the tart in hand.

“I could never get on board with savoury biscuits.”

He lifted a brow.“This from the woman who lives in a country where marmite and baked beans in that funky sauce exist.”

“It’ssurprisinglygood on toast.”

“I’ll pass, thanks.”He eased the tart from its plastic prison and slid it on to a plate.“I’d rather be eating something like this.”

He set it on the table between us and then turned to get forks.

This was so easy.It felt good and right and I wanted to sit here forever and never have to leave him, never have to step outside this warm, perfect bubble of whatever had grown between us.I wanted my life to just carry on from this point, and okay, it wouldn’t always be this perfect, but I wantedhim,and everything that entailed.

When I looked at him next he was watching me, an unreadable expression on his face.The room suddenly felt hot, the tension thick, as if we had both remembered, at the same time, what we’d begun in bed on Friday morning.

And what we were going to finish later.

“You’re sure you want this?”he asked, and his voice had dropped half an octave.

I swallowed.I’d have to be an idiot not to realise that his question was loaded with more than an enquiry about the tart.

I wanted it, all right.

I wanted to eat it off him.

Almost without thinking, I stood up.My mouth felt dry, my head pleasantly heavy from the wine, the food, the company.

---