Page 82 of Hit Man
She laughs. “Right.”
“It’s true. Think about a man who eats sirloin. What does that say about him?”
“He’s willing to spend more money on steak?”
“Yep. And he’s a follower not a leader. Someone who goes along with the status quo and who believes the extra money spent means a better cut of meat. He’s a health nut, worried about getting a bit of fat, a bit of grizzle into his diet. Forsaking flavor for a finer figure.” I hitch my T-shirt up and slap my hands on my abdomen. “See what too much grizzle can do to a man?”
Her gaze drops, her lips parting slightly. My lips twitch as she catches herself. “You’re unbelievable.”
I wink and she shakes her head, loving every minute of it.
“You haven’t seen unbelievable yet,” I murmur, intentionally letting a bit of rasp bleed into my voice. Using the kitchen prongs, I flip both steaks. The flame sparks and the meat sizzles.
“And T-bone steaks?”
“A smart man. Someone who’s more particular in choosing a cut yet knows a good deal when he sees it.”
“My father likes to grill T-bones. You describe him perfectly.” My eyebrows raise, and I’m now curious about her life, her upbringing. But she interrupts me before I can ask.
“And I’ll have you know”—she slaps her hands against her stomach—“a little bit of fat never hurt a girl.”
My gaze drops like I’m being treated to a glimpse of her abdomen when all that shows is the palm print of her hand on the towel.
I raise my eyes to her face.
She winks, audaciously. Mimicking me beautifully. Giving me a taste of my own medicine.
Just like that, in an act so simple, so sweet and silly and charming, I know deep down in my bones, I’m a goner.
And if that’s not bad enough, she’s . . . not done. “You”—she pokes me in the arm—“haven’t seen unbelievable yet.”
“Dios mío,” I murmur, feeling my cock rise to attention. There’s a few rare times in my life where I felt like I was drowning. That circumstances are so thoroughly out of my comfort level, so terribly out of my control that no matter how fast I kick and paddle and swim, the surface only grows more distance, shifting farther and farther away.
This is one of those moments where I’m sinking, and sinking fast.
“I don’t think you’re a scrapper steak,” she whispers, her tone taking on this deep, throaty quality that fucks with my head.
“Why not?”
“You’re not someone no one wants. A cast-off only a few curious dare try. In fact, every woman from LA to Tokyo wants a taste of you.”
“And in Mexico City?” I ask, staring at her hard.
And there it is—right in the middle of a conversation about steak, of all things—the fire in her eyes. Her arm brushes against mine. Her body mere inches away so that if I move, I’ll be touching her.
I hold steady, still.
She offers me a shy smile, and changes the subject. “What kind of cut am I?”
She’s not a follower. She’s not fussy or self-absorbed. She’s down-to-earth. She’s genuine and . . . real.
She’s a little bit of everything. Everything a guy like me wants . . . like, now . . .
“Turn around,” I order.
“Are you going to answer me?” she murmurs in protest, yet spinning around like I asked.
I eye our dinner, cooked to perfection. With a sigh, hit the Off button on the grill.
