Page 63 of Make Her Mine

I drop my hand instead.

But I can’t seem to keep my dad’s words from dinner out of my head. Why don’t you just actually date? Instead of making this all fake, why don’t we just date? Give it a try? While we’re doing this, why not see if this could be something?

She takes a breath and turns toward the sofa before I can do anything else.

“So you found all the spices?”

“Yep, and the popcorn and oil.”

She crosses to the couch and sits down, grabbing the remotes off the coffee table and pointing them at the TV. “And pants?”

“Oops, I forgot.”

But looking at her, sitting on my couch, one long bare leg tucked up under her butt, the other dangling over the edge of my couch, knowing she’s got panties and nothing else under that shirt—my shirt—I regret nothing.

She rolls her eyes, but smiles, “I’m shocked.”

I chuckle. “You know that I don’t know how to make this popcorn, right?”

Her eyes widen. “Oh, that’s right. I can’t let you ruin my popcorn.” She bounces up from the couch. “I’m on it.”

“Teach me. “

She glances back as I follow her into the kitchen. “You want to learn?”

“Why not?”

She eyes me again, her hot gaze sliding over my torso. “You should probably put a shirt back on.”

“Too distracting?”

“The hot oil could be dangerous.”

“Especially in your hands.”

“I should say that I would never throw hot oil on another human being,” she says, taking inventory of the supplies laid out on the countertop. “But I feel like the threat of it could keep you nice and polite for the next few minutes.”

I actually love her sass. She’s rarely snarky with anyone else, but I think that’s what I like the best about it. Besides the fact that she’s just funny. I feel like she’s more herself with me than most people. Even her family at times. It’s like she has to be softer, more composed, patient, and calm with everyone else. But she lets it all loose with me.

“Do you have a deep pot with a lid?” she asks.

I start to move toward the low cupboard where my pots and pans are stored, then think better of it. I lean back against the countertop and point. “Down there.”

She bends to get a pot out and I just appreciate the view.

She seems to realize that a moment later. But she stays in the bent over position and swivels to look at me, her hair falling over her shoulders and across her face. She blows a strand up out of her eye and looks at me. “You did that on purpose.”

“Stored my pans down there in case you ever came over and took your pants off?”

“Made me bend over to get it.”

“You’re closer to it.”

She’s still bent over, clearly not shy or embarrassed by the position she’s in or my ogling.

“I guess if I was really your girlfriend, me bending over in front of you would be a regular thing.”

That getting-very-familiar heat hits hard. “Oh, for sure,” I tell her. My voice is low and a little huskier than I intend.

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