Page 53 of No Turning Back
"Been thinking about it a long time," he admits, still facing away from me. "Though in my imagination, we both smelled a lot better."
I laugh, grateful he can't see my face. "Well, the night is young."
Chapter Seventeen
Quinn
I turn the steak, careful to dodge the spraying oil. The sizzle makes me wince, but I keep at it. Sam deserves a good meal after the day he's had. He didn't ask for this, he never asks me to cook for him, but after spending hours clearing that skunk-infested bunkhouse, the man needs protein.
The raw meat smell makes my stomach turn slightly. It's always been this way; I can handle cooked meat smells just fine, they're actually heavenly, but something about the texture doesn’t sit right, and that lingering aftertaste... I just can't do it. Not that I get sick or anything, I simply don't enjoy it, so I don't eat it.
Chicken's different though. I love chicken when it's properly cooked, not boiled, never boiled, but properly seasoned and roasted until the skin gets crispy. That I can get behind.
I glance at the clock. Sam's been in the downstairs shower for nearly an hour now. He took Blue in with him too, since she still had that lingering skunk smell. He claimed it was because he didn't want his bed to smell.
Dog stealer.
The water shuts off, and I hear Sam's heavy footsteps paddingdown the hallway. I flip the steak one last time, satisfied with the perfect sear. The kitchen smells like garlic and butter now, the herbs I'd thrown into the pan overwhelming the meaty scent.
"Something smells amazing," Sam says from behind me. I shoo Blue away towards her dish; she’s a little damp but not drippy. My baby hates dryers, so we just let her air dry.
I turn towards Sam. "How many shampoos did it t-" The question dies on my tongue as I see him for the first time. My mouth goes dry as I take in his perfectly styled beard. It's not gone, not completely, but it's like he went from rugged mountain man to Vogue model with one trim.
The trimmed edges frame his jaw with precision, highlighting the sharp angle of his cheekbones and the fullness of his lips. His hair is still damp, curling slightly at the ends, and he's thrown on a simple white T-shirt that clings to his chest where it hasn't completely dried. The bathroom steam follows him like a personal spotlight.
"Four," he says, running his hand along his jaw. "Four shampooing sessions, and I still smell faintly of skunk."
I can't stop staring. The kitchen suddenly feels ten degrees warmer. I've been living with this man for weeks, but somehow, standing here in my kitchen with his freshly groomed face and casual stance against the doorframe, he looks like a stranger. A devastatingly handsome stranger.
"You... trimmed," I manage, gesturing vaguely towards his face. The sharp gleam in his eyes tells me he's caught me staring.
"You like?" he asks, stroking his newly trimmed beard with a half-smile that makes my knees weak. "Thought it was time for a change. Skunk attack seemed like as good a reason as any."
I turn back to the stove, hoping he doesn't notice the flush creeping up my neck. "It's... different. Good different."
"Just good?" he teases, stepping closer to peek over my shoulder at the sizzling steak. His proximity sends a shiver down my spinethat has nothing to do with the temperature.
"Fine. It looks great," I admit, sliding the steak onto a waiting plate. "Happy now?"
"Getting there," he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear.
I clear my throat and step away, busying myself with serving the salad I'd prepared. "Dinner's ready. Hope you're hungry."
"Starving," he says, but the way his eyes linger on me makes me wonder if we're still talking about food.
I slide onto the barstool, the stone cool beneath my palms, though it does nothing to quell the warmth spreading up my neck. Sam sets his plate down across from me, his eyes never leaving mine.
"Aren't you going to have any?" he asks, nodding toward the steak.
"I don't eat red meat," I remind him, stabbing at my salad. "Remember?"
"Right," he says, cutting into his steak. The pink centre makes my stomach flip, but the appreciative sound he makes when he takes his first bite sends an entirely different kind of flutter through me. "This is incredible, Quinn. Thank you."
"Least I could do after your skunk adventure," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "I'm just glad Blue isn't permanently scarred."
As if on cue, Blue trots over and flops at Sam's feet with a contented sigh. The smell is nearly gone, though there's still a faint trace if you get too close.
Sam chews thoughtfully, watching me over the rim of his water glass. "So," he says after swallowing, "are we going to talk about it?"
