Page 96 of Three Reckless Words

“That’s enough talk about killing under my roof,” I say harshly.

“Dad! How long were you there?” Colt beams at me. “Didn’t you hear how horrible the hornets are?”

“I heard. I also heard Winnie make a good point. You can’t just go around planning to obliterate an entire species.” I fold my arms. “If we could wave a magic wand, a lot of people would do away with mosquitos, too. But you do that, you rob a lot of interesting animals of food. Bats, turtles, fish, you name it. I read about it in an article on my last long flight.”

The kids go silent, guilt etched on their faces.

Winnie looks like she wants to jump up and kiss me.

Shit, we definitely don’t need more of that.

I can’t help myself, though, and I smile at her anyway. She lets her bottom lip drop as she smiles back.

Goddamn, that frigging smile. I could stare at it all day.

“How about some pizza while you’re pondering the universe?” I drop the most important question.

“Yeah, cool, Mr. Rory.” Evans punches the air again. Briana almost smiles at me. “Are we ordering or are you making it?”

“Please say you’re making it, Dad. Your pizza blows away all the chain stuff.”

“What? You make your own pizza?” Winnie’s gaze drifts to me, her eyebrows raised.

“Deep dish,” Colt says proudly.

“Guilty as charged.” I hold up my hands in mock defense.

“Wow, and here I figured you had a personal chef like my parents.” She uncurls from the sofa, revealing long, bare legs and a pair of short white shorts. “Need some help?”

I don’t, but I nod anyway.

There’s no sense in leaving her stranded with these teenage monsters.

I barely have time to contemplate how I’ll keep a lid on my urge to rip her shorts off as she follows me to the kitchen.

13

BIRDS AND THE BEES (WINNIE)

Welp.

It turns out making pizza is a deeply sensual act. Who knew?

I certainly didn’t until Archer led me to his kitchen—enormous and gorgeously modern with high-end appliances, by the way—and pulled out his pre-made dough.

Pre-made dough.

As in, this manmade his own dough. Like, from scratch.

Just to check, I prod it and say, “You really made this? From flour and stuff?”

“That’s dough, yeah. All mine. I threw it together a little earlier,” he confirms.

Oh my God.

It almost feels like he’s breaking a cardinal rule of being rich and handsome, but I’m here for it.

I didn’t think rich people like Archer existed when my parents barely lift a finger to prepare their own food. Neither does anyone important in the rapid power rush of DC, where takeout competes with prepackaged meals and artisan chefs for the stomachs of the nation’s capital.

---