Page 26 of Start With A Slap

“That depends.” He tilted his head to size up her heart-shaped pockets and ruffled apron top. “What am I eating?”

She’d meant to take the apron off before he arrived, but then she’d kept it on to hide the effect he had on her nipples. “Jason’s favorite dish,” she said, and realized the double entendre too late.

He grinned wolfishly and took full advantage of her embarrassment. “So soon? I thought I’d have to work at least another week for that.”

“Texas stew,” she drew out firmly. “His grandmother’s recipe.” She turned toward the oven, lowered the flame. “His mom must have made it for you.”

She heard a snort. “Jason’s mum didnotcook. Not for me, anyway. Though she did barbecue my wife’s wedding gown once...”

She frowned at him, and he nodded.

“Tossed it over a rack of lamb, drizzled it with olive oil, set it on fire and watched it burn.” He got lost in the memory for a moment, then came back to her. “All the party guests said it smelled delicious.” He shrugged. “Well, except my wife.”

“Does Jason know about this?”

“He doesn’t know a lot of things.”

She considered that for a moment. “Whiskey or wine?”

“Hmm. Whiskey.”

“Jason should have the Macallan honors,” she said, headed to the cupboard. “You’re just gonna have to settle for forty-dollar swill. If your refined tastebuds can handle the shock.”

“They were shaped on swill.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and kept a respectful distance, watching her from the bar.

She willfully ignored his all-encompassing presence. “How do you take it? Neat?”

“Two ice cubes.”

“That’s how Jason takes it.”

He didn’t reply. Thinking to herselfWhy didn’t Jason do this before he got here?she struggled with breaking and emptying an ice tray into a bucket, only to have some ice pop off and scatter onto the countertop. She had to use her hip to stop one from sliding to the floor while she fished out exactly two cubes with annoyingly rigid tongs. She hated that he made her feel so self-conscious.

Handing him the glass would give him an opportunity to touch her fingers, and that might be unbearable, so she placed it on the bartop before him. “I hope you’ll be drinking with me.”

She poured a quick shot for herself and toasted him with a merry, “I couldn’t get through a night of you without it.”

A slight shake of his head. “Every time you talk, I like you more.”

Well, that was unintended. She put her empty shot glass down, mimed a zipper over her mouth and checked on the food.

“So, little Ivy Homemaker, wherever did you learn to cook?”

“I taught myself.” Bending toward the oven, she looked over her shoulder at him. “Sorry I couldn’t ink that onto my permanent record for you.”

“I like surprises.” He raised his glass. “Don’t you?”

She pulled out the stew and tossed her oven mitts aside. It was time to stop the charade. “What are you trying to accomplish here? Making me cook for you, with Jason around... What is this?”

“I have my parental concerns, you know.” He looked into his glass, swishing it around, ice clinking. “Got to make sure my boy will be well taken care of for the rest of his days, and so forth.”

She gave him a level gaze. “How about in the world where you’re you?”

“Didn’t you say no more conversations behind his back?”

“Didn’t you say that wasn’t my true wish?”

“Well, I’m glad you’re finally being honest with yourself?—”

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