Page 54 of Casita Casanova
“Salt or no salt?”
I raise my eyebrows at Maryn and she nods.
“Salt.”
She leaves us alone again and I ask the question that’s been bothering me all afternoon. “Why didn’t you get mad when Greg made that comment about your daughter being beautiful?”
There’s a flash of recognition in her eyes, then she smiles sheepishly. “You caught that?”
“You think?”
Maryn laughs. “It was harmless. He’s harmless.”
I tilt my head. I’d have to disagree, but she’s obviously not seen the way he looks at her.
Even still… “And I’m not?”
“Harmless?” she practically shrieks, then covers her mouth, laughing. “Hardly.”
I give her the panty dropper and lean back in my chair.
Her eyes go wide for a split second, a look I know well. “Put that away,” she hisses, looking around.
I chuckle. “Put what away?”
“You know what.” Her eyes fill with relief as our server returns.
I swivel my head toward the server, then givehera taste of the panty dropper, because maybe she’ll appreciate it and not tell me to lock it up. And, because I’m feeling playful, I turn it up a notch, giving her a full dose of my green eyes and my undivided attention—
And she spills the pitcher of margaritas.
All over my fucking lap.
Chapter Eighteen
Maryn
I fly out of my chair, laughing as I try to help this poor girl mop up the mess she made. “I’m sorry,” I say, unable to stop laughing long enough to actually be sorry for laughing.
“Oh my god,” she says, her voice panicked, “I’m so sorry, sir, I’m so—” She looks up at Cas, now standing over her in all his glory, and the words falter on her tongue.
I can sympathize with that feeling.
I grab her bicep and get her to focus on me instead of the beautiful man staring down at us with mischief and mirth dancing in his eyes. “Can you go get some towels?”
“Oh, yes. Oh God.” Her eyes search mine frantically. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. We all spill.” I shrug and pat her shoulder. She should have seen how many pints I spilled this afternoon. Albeit, not in the lap of the most beautiful man in the history of beautiful men. “I’ll work on this.”
“Okay. Okay. Thank you. I’m so sorry.”
She disappears and I laugh, shaking my head as I use my one paper napkin to try to soak up the cocktail from his jeans. I rub and dab at the sopping wet fabric, pressing the napkin in to soak up the—
His hands wrap around my wrists, stilling me.
I’m aggressively rubbing and patting at the man’s crotch. Which ishardeningas we speak.
I close my eyes on a long blink, then dare to look up into his eyes.
