want to complain?”
What he wanted to do was stay right here with her, whatever that took. And he hated himself for it. He hated that he’d started out wanting to find out more about his mother’s case and ended up enjoying—way more than he wanted to—his time with Gina.
He turned on the water to wash the potatoes as she pulled something from the fridge and closed the door. She walked over beside him and stuck a green pepper under the stream of water. There she was, close again. Leaning against him. Her breast grazed the back of his arm.
“This okay in your omelet?” she asked as she stepped away from him.
“Sure.” His throat was thick. He cleared it, feeling like a horny eighth grader who got all flustered at the thought of a boob touching him. “Sure,” he said again, with more conviction this time.
“Mozzarella or cheddar?”
“Are you always this prepared to fix a guy breakfast?” He didn’t want to think about another man standing in her kitchen. And he really didn’t want to think about what they might have done the night before.
She paused and grinned at him, as if she was on to his little tinge of jealousy. “I haven’t fixed breakfast for any guys since I’ve been in Tallahassee.”
“That wasn’t what I was asking.”
She pulled two knives from the silverware drawer. “I’m pretty sure it was,” she said as she turned toward him.
“Your sex life is none of my business.” He grasped the knife she held out for him.
She didn’t let go of the utensil. “Then why are you asking about it?”
He held her gaze for several seconds, challenging her. He didn’t want her to know how much he thought about having sex with her. “Cheddar.”
She released the knife and motioned to the cutting board. “Cut your potatoes. Thin. Like potato chips.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He’d do just about anything, he realized, to stay here with her.
“And no more looking at my ass.”
His eyes widened. She’d caught him.
“I’ll just . . . ummmm”—he motioned toward the cutting board behind him—“cut these potatoes now.” He turned around, ready to get to work before she nailed him again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
G ina watched as Landon sliced the potatoes. How adept a person was in the kitchen told a lot about how they’d been raised. Though Gina’s family was fairly well-off, she’d learned to cook from both her parents, unlike her wealthy roommate, Caitlyn, from sophomore year, who’d grown up with a housekeeper and didn’t even know how an electric can opener worked.
“You’ve done this before,” Gina said as she scooped from the margarine tub.
He chuckled. “Only a few thousand times.”
“You worked in a restaurant?”
“My aunt used to leave a note for me every day after school, telling me what I needed to do to get supper started.”
“I would have thought you had football practice.” She plopped the margarine into the skillet.
He reached for the second potato. “And basketball. And baseball.”
The rhythmic sound of the knife thwacking on the cutting board was relaxing. Homey. “So when did you have time to start dinner?”
He shrugged. “She was out even later than I was.”
“So what’s your specialty?” She loved the camaraderie with him. Their closeness. It was comfortable. Almost . . . intimate.
He turned to face her as he chuckled. “My specialty?”
“What do you like to cook?” She slid the mound of margarine around in the skillet, trying to get it to melt faster.
He turned back toward the cutting board and sliced some more. “Chili. Beef roast. Frozen pizzas.”
She laughed. “Frozen pizzas aren’t really cooking.”
“They are when your job keeps you out a lot of evenings.”
“What is it you do for the senator exactly?”
He straightened his back. “Senior statistical analyst,” he said in an official-sounding voice, but with a touch of sarcasm.
“You don’t like it?”
“The statistics part is fine. I was a math major, so
What he wanted to do was stay right here with her, whatever that took. And he hated himself for it. He hated that he’d started out wanting to find out more about his mother’s case and ended up enjoying—way more than he wanted to—his time with Gina.
He turned on the water to wash the potatoes as she pulled something from the fridge and closed the door. She walked over beside him and stuck a green pepper under the stream of water. There she was, close again. Leaning against him. Her breast grazed the back of his arm.
“This okay in your omelet?” she asked as she stepped away from him.
“Sure.” His throat was thick. He cleared it, feeling like a horny eighth grader who got all flustered at the thought of a boob touching him. “Sure,” he said again, with more conviction this time.
“Mozzarella or cheddar?”
“Are you always this prepared to fix a guy breakfast?” He didn’t want to think about another man standing in her kitchen. And he really didn’t want to think about what they might have done the night before.
She paused and grinned at him, as if she was on to his little tinge of jealousy. “I haven’t fixed breakfast for any guys since I’ve been in Tallahassee.”
“That wasn’t what I was asking.”
She pulled two knives from the silverware drawer. “I’m pretty sure it was,” she said as she turned toward him.
“Your sex life is none of my business.” He grasped the knife she held out for him.
She didn’t let go of the utensil. “Then why are you asking about it?”
He held her gaze for several seconds, challenging her. He didn’t want her to know how much he thought about having sex with her. “Cheddar.”
She released the knife and motioned to the cutting board. “Cut your potatoes. Thin. Like potato chips.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He’d do just about anything, he realized, to stay here with her.
“And no more looking at my ass.”
His eyes widened. She’d caught him.
“I’ll just . . . ummmm”—he motioned toward the cutting board behind him—“cut these potatoes now.” He turned around, ready to get to work before she nailed him again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
G ina watched as Landon sliced the potatoes. How adept a person was in the kitchen told a lot about how they’d been raised. Though Gina’s family was fairly well-off, she’d learned to cook from both her parents, unlike her wealthy roommate, Caitlyn, from sophomore year, who’d grown up with a housekeeper and didn’t even know how an electric can opener worked.
“You’ve done this before,” Gina said as she scooped from the margarine tub.
He chuckled. “Only a few thousand times.”
“You worked in a restaurant?”
“My aunt used to leave a note for me every day after school, telling me what I needed to do to get supper started.”
“I would have thought you had football practice.” She plopped the margarine into the skillet.
He reached for the second potato. “And basketball. And baseball.”
The rhythmic sound of the knife thwacking on the cutting board was relaxing. Homey. “So when did you have time to start dinner?”
He shrugged. “She was out even later than I was.”
“So what’s your specialty?” She loved the camaraderie with him. Their closeness. It was comfortable. Almost . . . intimate.
He turned to face her as he chuckled. “My specialty?”
“What do you like to cook?” She slid the mound of margarine around in the skillet, trying to get it to melt faster.
He turned back toward the cutting board and sliced some more. “Chili. Beef roast. Frozen pizzas.”
She laughed. “Frozen pizzas aren’t really cooking.”
“They are when your job keeps you out a lot of evenings.”
“What is it you do for the senator exactly?”
He straightened his back. “Senior statistical analyst,” he said in an official-sounding voice, but with a touch of sarcasm.
“You don’t like it?”
“The statistics part is fine. I was a math major, so
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