Page 95 of Score on You

She follows my lead until we’re perusing the contents in the fridge. “Is that tater tot hotdish?”

I remove the covered casserole dish. “My mother’s recipe.”

“How?”

The container thumps on the counter. “I didn’t ask questions.”

“Sounds like magic.”

“Or good fortune.” I motion to our surroundings. “My buddy asked for a list of stuff to order. This was at the top.”

“I can’t wait to try it.” Suggestion leaks from Callie’s reply.

My dick throbs in response while I preheat the oven. “Want a salad on the side?”

“Are you going to toss it yourself?”

I choke on my own spit. “Good Lord, woman. Do you know what you’re asking for?”

She blinks, the picture of innocence. “A tossed salad?”

The possibility—slight as it might be—of me getting in her ass is enough to blow my load. I blindly reach for the nearest stationary object, gripping the edge until my knuckles bleed white. It takes several moments to talk myself off the ledge. “Coming right up, sweetness.”

She doesn’t react to my uneven tone. “Can you check if there’s ranch? Extra creamy is best.”

I clench my eyes shut, begging for a reprieve. My feet stumble forward to do her bidding. “Take a seat. I’ll get this whipped up for us.”

“Can I help?” Her temptation is right behind me, far too close to remain unaffected.

“Nah, I got this. Relax for a bit.”

The scrape of a chair announces Callie doing as requested. “If you insist.”

It doesn’t take long to gather supplies. All the fixings we could ever want are available, including her desired dressing.

My motions are a blur as I dump the pre-packaged ingredients into a bowl. It’s about muscle memory at this point.

“Are you okay, boyfriend?”

I can feel her interest scalding my back. “Couldn’t be better.”

But that’s a lie, and she must hear it. “Are you sure? Your movements are very… stiff.”

I hang my head, allowing a tortured groan to spill free. “Just hungry.”

“Want me to put in the hotdish?” Callie is already off her chair, sliding on bulky mitts. “How long should I set the timer for?”

My mind whirls in a useless cycle when she bends to set the pan on the rack. “Um…”

“Twenty minutes is usually sufficient for reheating.”

“Perfect,” I breathe.

She glances over in my direction. Her eyes widen at whatever state she finds me in. “You’re really… excited.”

I don’t need to look down at the evidence bulging in my jeans. “Occupational hazard.”

“From tossing salad?”

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