Page 41 of Mine This Time
“Does your father cook?”
“Oh, yes. Both of my parents have French Creole in their roots. It’s a requirement to be able to cook.” I turned the burner off under the shrimp and lifted the pot to set it inside the stainless steel sink opposite the kitchen island.
“Do you need any help?”
Mari’s voice was closer this time, and I turned to find that she had rounded the island. She stopped at my side, and I couldn’t resist leaning over to dust a kiss across her lips. I should’ve known better. The moment I touched her, electricity zinged through me. Her lips were too damn tempting. They were bow-shaped, and her bottom lip was plump. When I pulled back, I was gratified to see her cheeks tinged pink, and a reluctant smile curling the corners of her mouth.
“I don’t need any help, but thanks for asking,” I replied.
“What goes with the shrimp?”
“Just some rolls. Now, I can’t take credit for those. My mama brought the dough over this afternoon when she dropped off Star. All I did was bake them and brush them with butter.”
“Can I set the table or anything?” Mari prompted.
“If you insist. Plates are over there,” I said, nudging my chin toward one of the cabinets. The cabinets had paned glass doors, so she could see where I meant. While she set the table, I got the platter with rice, onions and mushrooms ready and put the shrimp in another bowl with melted butter.
Eating with Mari was a unique form of temptation. It was simply good food, but the way she threw herself into it, well, my body definitely noticed.
“Oh my God,” she said with a moan after she finished the last bite on her plate.
My mind clicked onto a memory from last night, as her body quickened just before her release. I forcibly shoved those thoughts away. If I was going to have any shot with Mari—at making her see me as more than a flash in the pan who came along at an unsettling point in her life—I needed to proceed with caution.
“Good?” I asked as I set my own fork down and took a sip of my water.
“Delicious. You can tell your father I thought it was amazing. I’m not the greatest cook. Adequate is the word I would use to describe my cooking skills.”
“You don’t need to be a great cook, Mari.”
Her eyes snagged mine. Heat flared there, the banked embers of passion that never seemed to cool when we were near each other. Directly on its heels was a flicker of uncertainty in her gaze.
I decided a change of subject was in order. “Now that you’re not starving, let me clean up, and we can have drinks in the living room.”
Mari stood quickly. “Oh, no you don’t. You cooked, so I’m cleaning up. I can either wash these plates myself or put them in the dishwasher, whatever you prefer.”
I shrugged as I stood and followed her over to the kitchen sink. “Dishwasher is perfectly fine.” Star followed us over, and I reached into one of the cabinets to pull out her small canister of treats. I handed one to Mari. “Go ahead and give her one. She’ll expect it.”
Mari held the treat flat on her palm, and Star obediently sat down. She knew the drill. “Good girl,” Mari said after Star gobbled up the treat.
Mari began rinsing the plates, and I called over my shoulder, “What would you like to drink? Wine, bourbon, or whiskey?”
“I’ll take wine. After that meal, I need something on the mellow side.”
“Red or white?” I pulled out two wine glasses and turned, resting my hips against the counter just as she leaned over to put a plate in the dishwasher. Of course, unbeknownst to her, she offered me a near perfect view down her blouse. She was wearing a loose white cotton blouse that tied in a knot at the top, paired with a flowy skirt. She was somehow both casual and business looking at the same time.
I could see the cream lace of her bra peeking out and the curve of her breasts. I had a visceral hit of a memory—her musky scent and the way her skin felt under my lips when I swirled my tongue around one of her ruched nipples.
“White, don’t you think?” Mari asked as she straightened and turned to reach for the second plate in the sink.
I’d completely forgotten my question. Martyr that I was when it came to Mari, I watched as she leaned over to put the second plate in the dishwasher. I had to curl one hand tightly around the counter, so fierce was the need pulsing in my veins. It was like a peat fire burning underground, nearly impossible to put out. Peat fires could burn for years and years.
“Nash?” Mari prompted when she straightened again and closed the dishwasher.
“White sounds perfect, nice and cool,” I belatedly replied.
I released the edge of the counter and turned away to fetch a bottle of wine from the rack under the island.
“Your dishwasher is almost full,” she commented. “Should I go ahead and start it?”
