Page 49 of Golden Touch
With my tongue.
It will happen eventually. The girl wants me, and I’m pretty irresistible. But it’s not going to happen this morning, so I’d better get a move on.
There’s beer to make, grain to order, and a business to run. The fun can come later.
CHAPTER 20
LIVIA
I spend the morning at my desk behind my brand-new paper shade. I alternate between working on a grain order that Nash needs and trying not to think about that kiss last night. Or, rather, kisses, plural.
I’m a strong, independent woman, damn it. So why am I finding it so difficult to stop replaying that moment in my mind?
God. He’s a great kisser. And those bossy hands…
“Pussycat?”
I practically jump out of my chair. And when I raise my head to meet his gaze, I’m almost certainly blushing.
“It’s noon,” he announces. “Instead of a lunch break, I’m heading out to help Matteo pick up a car he bought. You want me to bring back some groceries? I could cook something tonight. Do you have a grill?”
“No grill. But I’ll cook,” I hear myself volunteer. “You like enchiladas? Bring back some chicken thighs and a package of tortillas.”
“I like anything you’re making me.” He gives me a saucy wink. “That’s all you need?”
“Yeah, I’ve got the rest. Well, except for maybe some ripe avocados and green onions.”
His grin widens. “I’ll do my best.”
I wave him toward the door. “My love to Leila and that hottie of hers. Bet that kid is too beautiful for words.”
Nash’s eyes narrow. “Why do all the women fall at Matteo’s feet?”
“Not all the women,” I point out. “Just your sister. Now get gone, and don’t forget the green onions.”
He gives me a salute, and then he’s gone.
Somehow, it’s easier not to think about his mouth after he’s left the building. Instead, I find myself worrying about Rotty and Razor. I finish out the day in a half-terrified state, darting past windows only when necessary and steering clear of the tasting room.
It’s no way to live. But I can get used to anything. I’ve done it before.
When five o’clock comes, I push all my hair under a cap and take a quick, stealthy trip across the parking lot to the pumphouse. In the kitchen, I find the groceries I’d ordered from Nash, and I start on making chicken enchiladas and a salad.
Saucing everything and rolling up enchiladas is fussy work, so I never make this dish for myself. The truth is that I’m a pack animal at heart, and I like having people to cook for.
The kitchen smells like heaven when Nash taps on the door. “It’s me.”
I hustle over to disengage the hotel lock to let him in.
“The locksmith is coming tomorrow,” he says. “Then you’ll have a deadbolt.”
“Thank you,” I say primly. It’s a good thing I made him dinner as a thank-you. Because last night I thanked him with tequila and my tongue in his mouth, and that can’t happen again.
Nash goes upstairs to shower, and I hear his music start up. Either the playlist was chosen for my benefit, or I’m being egotistical thinking he’s chosen it for me. “You Sexy Thing” is followed by “Someday We’ll Be Together” and Ed Sheeran’s “The Shape of You.”
A man doesn’t blast Ed Sheeran unless he thinks he can get some. It’s just a fact.
Eventually, he comes back downstairs wearing a very tight T-shirt that shows off his rippled chest and his colorful, full-sleeve tattoo. I roll my eyes.
