didn’t
need his hands on my body, lips on my neck, or weight crushing me into the bed.
I
just needed butter.
I
didn’t even have to ask.
Zach
leaned over me, pressing his hips against mine as though he planned to take me
then, there, and in danger of breaking the eggs. He reached, and the
irresponsible vixen in me hoped it was to loop his arm around my waist and have
his way with me on the floor.
Instead,
he rooted through his supplies and handed me a stick of butter. How it didn’t
melt instantly in my hands was a modern day miracle.
I
swallowed. He pulled away before I could thank him without actually speaking.
I was
just lucky I hadn’t sunk to my knees and showed him how grateful I felt.
Zach
whistled as he stirred the charred mess of his pasta. He added a generic can of
sauce over the chaos and tossed a lid on the horror. It simmered as I started
the grits and cooked my shrimp in the rendered bacon fat, onion, garlic, and enough
cayenne to put hair on your chest , as Gran used to tell Grandaddy. It
only took about twenty minutes to come together—enough time for Zach to burn
his first batch of garlic bread and douse our toaster with brunt garlic powder
caked onto the slots.
We
sat down at the same time—my shrimp and grits, steaming hot and delicious, and
his gloop covered in half a can of parmesan cheese and patted on top of garlic
bread.
He
raised a fork to his lips. The clumping sauce oozed over an uncooked chunk of
sausage.
Oh, Lord.
My family prided ourselves on one thing. Southern hospitality. My own moral
code included not sitting idly by while someone got food poisoning.
I
smacked his hand and took his fork. Zach grunted, but I removed his plate and
replaced it with a ladle of grits. I loaded it with shrimp and cheese. He
grinned as I shoved it under his nose.
I
sat down and tried to avoid his sea-green eyes.
And
I immediately failed, but I didn’t mind. His impish green teased over me.
God,
he was handsome.
He sampled
his dinner, his smirk evolving into a grin as he took a big spoonful and sucked
the juices from the shrimp’s tail. His dimples were genuine. A wonderful complement
for a home-cooked meal.
We
ate in silence, and Zach finished every bite on his plate. He didn’t go for seconds,
though I probably would have allowed it. He dumped his horrid spaghetti and moved
his dishes to the dishwasher while I watched him with my best attempt at cool
indifference.
He
nodded to the container on the counter and winked.
“Dessert’s
on me.”
Dessert?
I
abandoned my dinner and peeked under the lid of the gold cake platter.
A
perfectly baked, 100% authentic, pecan pie rested beneath, waiting to be cut.
Homemade .
By
Zach.
I
thudded the lid against the platter with a crash.
“You
prick!”
That
son of a bitch played me.
Again !
He wasn’t
some inexperienced child wandering the kitchen and tossing whatever sounded
Italian enough into the pot. He knew what he was doing. And worse, he
knew how badly he was ruining it!
And
I fell for his tricks again. Only this time I did something worse than sleep
with him. I let him sample my secret family recipe. I shared my dinner like he was
a sad, hungry puppy, wagging his tail under the table.
For
three days, I had stewed in silence. In thirty minutes, he made me crack.
His
laugh carried from the parlor.
That
pecan pie was about to get shoved down his throat.
…Right
after I tried a piece.
Shay
fucking tormented me with that piece of string she called a bikini.
She
wore a tiny, pink tease that hid everything good, perfect, and holy in this
godforsaken world. I remembered what it concealed, but that memory needed a
refresher.
Goddamn.
How was
it legal for a woman that fucking beautiful to wear a bikini like that?
Especially near a pool! Christ, everyone warned about not running near the
water. How about no wet-dream inspired bikinis? A man didn’t need a head injury
to drown. One glance at her
need his hands on my body, lips on my neck, or weight crushing me into the bed.
I
just needed butter.
I
didn’t even have to ask.
Zach
leaned over me, pressing his hips against mine as though he planned to take me
then, there, and in danger of breaking the eggs. He reached, and the
irresponsible vixen in me hoped it was to loop his arm around my waist and have
his way with me on the floor.
Instead,
he rooted through his supplies and handed me a stick of butter. How it didn’t
melt instantly in my hands was a modern day miracle.
I
swallowed. He pulled away before I could thank him without actually speaking.
I was
just lucky I hadn’t sunk to my knees and showed him how grateful I felt.
Zach
whistled as he stirred the charred mess of his pasta. He added a generic can of
sauce over the chaos and tossed a lid on the horror. It simmered as I started
the grits and cooked my shrimp in the rendered bacon fat, onion, garlic, and enough
cayenne to put hair on your chest , as Gran used to tell Grandaddy. It
only took about twenty minutes to come together—enough time for Zach to burn
his first batch of garlic bread and douse our toaster with brunt garlic powder
caked onto the slots.
We
sat down at the same time—my shrimp and grits, steaming hot and delicious, and
his gloop covered in half a can of parmesan cheese and patted on top of garlic
bread.
He
raised a fork to his lips. The clumping sauce oozed over an uncooked chunk of
sausage.
Oh, Lord.
My family prided ourselves on one thing. Southern hospitality. My own moral
code included not sitting idly by while someone got food poisoning.
I
smacked his hand and took his fork. Zach grunted, but I removed his plate and
replaced it with a ladle of grits. I loaded it with shrimp and cheese. He
grinned as I shoved it under his nose.
I
sat down and tried to avoid his sea-green eyes.
And
I immediately failed, but I didn’t mind. His impish green teased over me.
God,
he was handsome.
He sampled
his dinner, his smirk evolving into a grin as he took a big spoonful and sucked
the juices from the shrimp’s tail. His dimples were genuine. A wonderful complement
for a home-cooked meal.
We
ate in silence, and Zach finished every bite on his plate. He didn’t go for seconds,
though I probably would have allowed it. He dumped his horrid spaghetti and moved
his dishes to the dishwasher while I watched him with my best attempt at cool
indifference.
He
nodded to the container on the counter and winked.
“Dessert’s
on me.”
Dessert?
I
abandoned my dinner and peeked under the lid of the gold cake platter.
A
perfectly baked, 100% authentic, pecan pie rested beneath, waiting to be cut.
Homemade .
By
Zach.
I
thudded the lid against the platter with a crash.
“You
prick!”
That
son of a bitch played me.
Again !
He wasn’t
some inexperienced child wandering the kitchen and tossing whatever sounded
Italian enough into the pot. He knew what he was doing. And worse, he
knew how badly he was ruining it!
And
I fell for his tricks again. Only this time I did something worse than sleep
with him. I let him sample my secret family recipe. I shared my dinner like he was
a sad, hungry puppy, wagging his tail under the table.
For
three days, I had stewed in silence. In thirty minutes, he made me crack.
His
laugh carried from the parlor.
That
pecan pie was about to get shoved down his throat.
…Right
after I tried a piece.
Shay
fucking tormented me with that piece of string she called a bikini.
She
wore a tiny, pink tease that hid everything good, perfect, and holy in this
godforsaken world. I remembered what it concealed, but that memory needed a
refresher.
Goddamn.
How was
it legal for a woman that fucking beautiful to wear a bikini like that?
Especially near a pool! Christ, everyone warned about not running near the
water. How about no wet-dream inspired bikinis? A man didn’t need a head injury
to drown. One glance at her
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