Page 49 of Gimme Some Sugar

Carly rolled the dice, trying to ignore the heat in her cheeks. “Sorry,” she said, the apology auto-piloting its way out of her mouth anyway.

“Too bad your tenacity won’t keep you out of trouble.”

Jackson’s drawl combined with an unmistakable glint in his eye, and Carly couldn’t tell if she was more confused or turned on. “What do you mean?”

She followed his gaze down to the game board, where she mentally tallied the number of squares to her next landing spot with a groan. He leaned toward her, forearms propped over his muscular thighs, and grinned.

“I’m no expert, but it looks to me like even ambitious chefs can go directly to jail.”

* * *

“Eight,nine, ten…haha, that’s Boardwalk, my friend. Pay up,” Carly crowed, giving Jackson a firm nudge with her bare toes. He groaned and shook his head in disbelief.

“You’re kidding, right? When did you put a hotel on the damned thing?” Jesus, she was absolutely relentless.

It was a massive fucking turn-on.

Carly arched a brow at him, giving up a tart smile. “I used the money I took from you when you landed on Saint Charles Place last go-round, remember? That’ll be two grand, please. Cash only.”

Well, crap. “As much as I hate to admit it, I think I’m toast.” Jackson reached out to count his dwindling stack of bills, knowing he was going to come up short. “I only have fourteen hundred. Looks like you win.”

Not that he was surprised. Aside from her little stint in jail, Carly had run the board from Baltic to Boardwalk for the last hour and a half, and the three glasses of wine she’d had in the process only served to heighten her good-natured trash talk as she proceeded to wipe the floor with him.

“I told you not to mess with me,” she said with a hot little smile, starting to pick up the houses and hotels from the board and put them back in the box.

Just because she’d won didn’t mean he was going to let her have her way entirely. After all, he had his pride.

“Oh, no you don’t.” Jackson reached out and caught her mid-scoop, curling his hand around her wrist. “Loser picks up. House rules.” The firm push of her pulse danced against his fingers, but he didn’t loosen his grip.

“It’s my house, remember?” What her words lacked in heat, her body made up for in spades. He let his hand sweep around the thin curve of her wrist before letting it go.

“Yeah, but it’s my game. Plus, I insist.”

Her eyes glittered darkly against the glow of late-evening sunlight setting in the windows behind her, but she didn’t argue. Throughout the course of the game, they’d talked about various safe topics, like music (she liked classic rock), sports (he’d have to overlook the Islanders thing for now), and hobbies (she kept meaning to give yoga a try). But the whole time, he’d been unable to shake the little voice in the back of his mind, the one that made him think he was surely going nuts because they’d had dinner together right on this very spot not even two hours before.

Feed her.

“So, are there house rules that say I can’t put away the leftovers, too? Sitting here doing nothing isn’t really my speed.” Carly’s velvety voice jarred him out of his reverie.

“Fair enough,” Jackson said, shaking off his weird inner voice in favor of the here-and-now. “But only because there are no dishes to do.”

Packing up the rest of the game in a couple easy moves, Jackson joined her in the kitchen a minute later. The overhead light illuminated the room with warm coziness, making her look even more at ease in a space where she clearly already belonged. He watched Carly’s relaxed gestures as she popped the tops closed on the cardboard containers, straightening everything into an orderly row.

“So, do you create all of your own food experiences?”

“I cook every day, if that’s what you mean.” Her bare feet whispered over the floorboards, making a softshush-shushsound as she made her way to the fridge with the cartons.

Jackson measured her with a steady glance, finally giving voice to the thought that had been niggling at the back of his mind all night. “I was curious if anyone ever cooks for you.”

Carly shrugged, and the rustle of her hair over her shoulders sent up the intoxicating scent that went straight to his gut. “You brought takeout.” She gestured to the food as she put it in the refrigerator.

“True. But I didn’t make it.” As soon as the words left his lips, the meaning behind them seemed to uncoil in his brain. He really hadn’t fed her after all.

“I taste lots of things that other chefs make, but that’s mostly to tweak them.”

“That doesn’t count. I’m talking about somebody making something just for you. You know, giving you the whole experience.” Something in Jackson’s chest thumped to life at the wide-eyed flash of Carly’s stare, and his words felt reckless as they formed in his mind. “When was the last time someone fed you rather than the other way around?”

“I don’t know.” Carly’s words escaped on a murmur barely louder than a whisper. The innuendo threaded through the air like a provocative suggestion, so heady that Jackson could imagine its flavor in his mouth, so seductively good that he wanted Carly to taste it too. She looked up at him, her pretty brown eyes brimming not just with want, but with need.

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