attractive could it be to talk about his sister on every date? He didn’t mean to, but when he let his walls down, it just came out. And Saralynn was a giant wrecking ball to his normally carefully guarded fortress.
She crossed back to him and picked up his hand. “Well, this looks really good. We’re talking big brownie points. I might let you beat me in pool. That’s a lie. I’m totally going to kick your ass, but the dinner does mean a lot.”
He laughed, and the knot of uncertainty loosened in his chest. “Big talk. Better hope you can back that up.”
“Or what?”
“Or I might not let you beat me at pool.”
“Bring it on. I don’t need your charity. I can take you just fine without it.” She wiggled her brows then spun around and filled a plate with more food than he
and
Cole could possibly eat. In a week.
“Planning on a doggy bag?”
“Huh? Oh. No, I’m just hungry. Sorry. Are you used to dating models who fill up on a few spinach leaves?”
“Uh … ” In a way. Maybe not that extreme, but most women didn’t usually order much on dates. It was a refreshing change. “No, I like a woman who eats. It’s just for us, so take as much as you want.”
She took a seat on one of the stools, beamed at him, and ate a forkful of meatloaf. Then her eyes closed, and she moaned, which had two effects. One, pride coursed through him for the compliment to his cooking. Two, lust coursed through him when he imaged that moan in a different setting. Saralynn licked her lips—
God, not helping
—and cut another bite with her fork. “Okay, I didn’t give you enough credit. This isn’t filching family recipes. This is next
Food Network Star
. You have a gift.”
His face burned all the way to the tips of his ears. “It’s meatloaf.”
“It’s a masterpiece,” she said around another mouthful.
“Glad you like it.” He filled a plate for himself, sat beside her, and watched her eat from the corner of his eye. She squealed and tapped her feet on the bottom rung of the stool. If she were faking the enthusiasm, she deserved an Emmy. Cole had said his cooking was good, but the average twenty-two-year-old hockey player wasn’t that discerning about food. If it wasn’t currently breathing, moving, or growing but at one point had been, it was fair game. “So I haven’t talked to you since Wednesday night. How was the rest of your week?”
She put her fork down and took a drink from the glass of soda he’d set out. “I’m sure there are worse jobs, but interviewing hockey players—especially when the questions are personal—can get weird. Times ten when one of them is your brother. I just hope this idea sells as well as I think it will. That was yesterday. Today was the photo shoot.”
“I heard some stuff about that. Twenty-something half-naked hockey players. You weren’t taking the pictures, were you?”
“Are you kidding? You’ve seen my camera. No, I left that to a professional, but I had to be there to liaise. That’s French for ‘corral and hold the attention span of six-foot toddlers.’ Averting their pranks is a job of its own.”
“Sure you weren’t sponging the sweat from their foreheads or greasing their abs?” He kept his tone light and playful, and honestly, he didn’t think she’d really do anything like that, but knowing she’d been surrounded by a lot of men at their physical peaks made him twitch.
She’d been stirring her corn into her potatoes and looked up at him with a knowing grin. “You’re jealous.”
“Am not.” Okay, that sounded lame even to him. “Maybe a little. I know it’s stupid.”
“It’s sweet.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek, her hair sweeping forward to tickle his jaw. He got a whiff of her cotton candy perfume and breathed deeper.
“You smell like dessert.”
“Ah-ah. What happened to PG-13? And I hope that’s not your way of telling me there’s no real dessert, ’cause I just cleaned my plate.”
He peered around her
She crossed back to him and picked up his hand. “Well, this looks really good. We’re talking big brownie points. I might let you beat me in pool. That’s a lie. I’m totally going to kick your ass, but the dinner does mean a lot.”
He laughed, and the knot of uncertainty loosened in his chest. “Big talk. Better hope you can back that up.”
“Or what?”
“Or I might not let you beat me at pool.”
“Bring it on. I don’t need your charity. I can take you just fine without it.” She wiggled her brows then spun around and filled a plate with more food than he
and
Cole could possibly eat. In a week.
“Planning on a doggy bag?”
“Huh? Oh. No, I’m just hungry. Sorry. Are you used to dating models who fill up on a few spinach leaves?”
“Uh … ” In a way. Maybe not that extreme, but most women didn’t usually order much on dates. It was a refreshing change. “No, I like a woman who eats. It’s just for us, so take as much as you want.”
She took a seat on one of the stools, beamed at him, and ate a forkful of meatloaf. Then her eyes closed, and she moaned, which had two effects. One, pride coursed through him for the compliment to his cooking. Two, lust coursed through him when he imaged that moan in a different setting. Saralynn licked her lips—
God, not helping
—and cut another bite with her fork. “Okay, I didn’t give you enough credit. This isn’t filching family recipes. This is next
Food Network Star
. You have a gift.”
His face burned all the way to the tips of his ears. “It’s meatloaf.”
“It’s a masterpiece,” she said around another mouthful.
“Glad you like it.” He filled a plate for himself, sat beside her, and watched her eat from the corner of his eye. She squealed and tapped her feet on the bottom rung of the stool. If she were faking the enthusiasm, she deserved an Emmy. Cole had said his cooking was good, but the average twenty-two-year-old hockey player wasn’t that discerning about food. If it wasn’t currently breathing, moving, or growing but at one point had been, it was fair game. “So I haven’t talked to you since Wednesday night. How was the rest of your week?”
She put her fork down and took a drink from the glass of soda he’d set out. “I’m sure there are worse jobs, but interviewing hockey players—especially when the questions are personal—can get weird. Times ten when one of them is your brother. I just hope this idea sells as well as I think it will. That was yesterday. Today was the photo shoot.”
“I heard some stuff about that. Twenty-something half-naked hockey players. You weren’t taking the pictures, were you?”
“Are you kidding? You’ve seen my camera. No, I left that to a professional, but I had to be there to liaise. That’s French for ‘corral and hold the attention span of six-foot toddlers.’ Averting their pranks is a job of its own.”
“Sure you weren’t sponging the sweat from their foreheads or greasing their abs?” He kept his tone light and playful, and honestly, he didn’t think she’d really do anything like that, but knowing she’d been surrounded by a lot of men at their physical peaks made him twitch.
She’d been stirring her corn into her potatoes and looked up at him with a knowing grin. “You’re jealous.”
“Am not.” Okay, that sounded lame even to him. “Maybe a little. I know it’s stupid.”
“It’s sweet.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek, her hair sweeping forward to tickle his jaw. He got a whiff of her cotton candy perfume and breathed deeper.
“You smell like dessert.”
“Ah-ah. What happened to PG-13? And I hope that’s not your way of telling me there’s no real dessert, ’cause I just cleaned my plate.”
He peered around her
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