Page 59 of Save Me
His mouth kicks up at the corner. “Only when they deserve it.”
What could Henry possibly have said or done to earn Ronan’s fist? Something tells me it has to do with me.
Shaking my head, I unfasten my belt. “Fine. Would you rather go and sulk at home alone or come inside and watch me eat this?”
His gaze shifts from my mouth to the tart and back to my mouth. With a crooked smirk, he opens his door and climbs out.
“Yeah, thought so.” I slide out, wondering what dirty thoughts might have just flittered through his mind. That’s fine. I can work with that.
I meet him at my porch steps as the faint notes of a twangy instrument carry in the quiet night.
“Is someone playing a ukulele?” he asks.
“Yeah. Frank.”
Ronan’s eyes pop. “King Kong plays the ukulele?”
I bark with laughter. “Yeah, he does. You want to go see?”
He pauses to consider that. “Maybe another time.”
“No more peopling.”
“Exactly.”
I lead Ronan into my house, acutely aware of the tension still radiating from his rigid body. Faint music drifts out of the speakers. Skye or Rebel must have had it on while they were making dinner. Thankfully, the kitchen is spotless. They’ve already cleaned up.
Ronan wanders to the patio doors. “They do thiseverynight?”
“During high season. Unless it’s raining.” I set the white china plate on the island, where Ronan and I sat that day, reviewing his hire list. It feels like so long ago now. “It’s a tradition Gigi started decades ago and one of the best parts of the summer. When we’re fully staffed and everyone’s here, it’s a real party.” I fish a fork out of the drawer. On my way past the freezer, I grab a bag of peas. “Come here.”
Ronan abandons his spying perch and joins me.
“Here. Hold this against your knuckles.” I slap the frozen peas into his good hand and then, collecting his injured hand gently, guide them together.
Just as quickly, he sets the bag down to free his hands. Seizing me by the waist, he hoists me onto the counter, pushing my thighs apart so he fits in between them. “You promised me a show.”
“A pastry show?”
He hums as he slides the plate closer and collects the fork, handing it to me.
“Ice it, now.” I tap the peas.
With an eye roll, he rests the back of his hand against the bag while watching me intently.
I dig into the tart with my fork, breaking off and spearing a chunk on the tines before lifting it to my mouth to slip in, acutely aware of Ronan watching. The flaky, buttery texture begins melting against my tongue almost instantly. “Oh my God,” I moan around the mouthful, forgetting my manners. “Abbi wasn’t lying. This pastry chef is good.” The shell for the chicken was decadent, but this is out of this world.
“Her name is Fiona Crumb.”
“Crumb? You’re messing with me.”
He chuckles. “I wish I was.”
I sever another forkful, this one with lemon curd on it, and slide it into my mouth. Another moan escapes me as the tart flavor explodes on my tongue.
Ronan watches with a private smile.
“Is this some sort of weird fetish of yours?”
