Page 17 of Playing the Field
“Wow. That’s so nice.” My voice sounds like it’s echoing through a cavern, and I wonder if I’m about to faint. I can’t recall the last time a guy cooked for me. No, wait. I can’t recall it because it’s never happened. The men I’ve dated in the ten years since college took me out to dinner here and there, and we ordered plenty of takeout. Even during the relationship I had for over a year, there wasn’t a day I came home to the scent of meat grilling or even a piece of bread burning in the toaster oven.
This is truly unprecedented.
“Glad you approve.” Hunter goes back to tending to the meat on the grill, where it drips and spits onto the charcoal briquettes below. I ate half a grilled cheese sandwich from a food truck earlier today and didn’t realize until now how hungry I am. But my senses are on overload, and I’m not sure if my mouth is watering because of the delicious aroma or the delicious man. “It…looks amazing.” I can barely form words because they cut down on the deep inhaling I want to do.
The corner of his mouth tips up like he can’t decide between a smirk and a smile. “Thanks.”
I spy the bottle of scotch and the glass next to it on the table. When he catches my roving eye, he nods toward the bottle. “Can I get you a glass?”
“I…I’m not sure I’m a scotch drinker.”
The rumble of his laughter is oddly soothing. “Never know until you try.”
He puts the spatula down next to the grill and closes the hood. Then he moves past me, leaving a lingering scent of pine soap and firewood. I take a deep inhale without meaning to do it. When he returns, still wearing the trout oven mitt, he holds out two glasses in his palm. One has ice cubes, and the other is empty.
“Not sure if you want it neat or on the rocks.”
I shrug. “Not sure either.”
“Maybe try it both ways and then you’ll know what you like.”
He wriggles out of the oven mitt and pours two inches of dark brown liquid into each glass. I take the first one from him, doing my best not to touch his hand in the process. “Inhale the scent of it first and get used to the strength. Then take a tiny bit in your mouth and swirl it over your tongue.” The deep growl of his voice mixed with the sensual instructions has my toes curling in my shoes, not to mention a straight shot of lust that rockets down to my core.
I do as instructed and try not to wince at the first, frighteningly strong sip of scotch on the rocks. A smile plays on his lips as he watches me swallow.
I blink away the tears forming in the corners of my eyes. “Okay, that wasn’t too terrific.”
“You don’t have to?—”
I hold up a hand. “Hang on.” I swirl the scotch against the ice to chill it and boldly take another small sip. It goes down more easily this time. No tears. And I actually sort of like the taste. It almost has a maple syrup aftertaste, which probably means I have no idea what I’m tasting. “Better.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Lemme try it neat.”
“Look at you. Now you’re a pro.”
Smiling for real now, he holds out the second glass. Ourfingers brush as I take it from him, and a tiny jolt of electricity runs up my arm. I kind of knew it would happen because he makes me nervous—the excited, good kind of nervous. Still, it catches me by surprise. It’s crazy that the barest graze of his skin causes such a reaction.
If I lean into the science, I can try to make sense of it. It’s purely biological. We react to the opposite sex because, otherwise, no procreation would occur, and the species would die out.
Okay, forget all that. There’s nothing clinically scientific about the way Hunter causes a flutter in my chest to rage into a butterfly army when he comes near me. This is otherworldly magic, and I’m not about to ruin it by turning it into a textbook explanation. I’m going to enjoy it quietly and hope he isn’t aware of how fast my heart is beating.
I don’t dare look him in the eye because I don’t want him to know how hard I’m trying to control my breathing. He can’t know. The thought of him laughing about my obvious crush is enough to shock the feelings from my body. Within seconds, I return to my calm, collected self, and I take a tiny taste from the second glass.
The room temperature liquid goes down smoothly, and I venture a slightly larger sip.
“I feel proud. Popping your scotch cherry.”
Holy crap.
I choke, liquid dribbling out the corner of my mouth while an awful burn follows the scotch down my respiratory tract. I cough scotch from my lungs, and it takes me a minute to regain my composure. Hunter looks sympathetic but also amused.
“Oh my god, please don’t say things like that around me.” My voice is a croak when I can finally form words.
Hunter fails to suppress a smile, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
“Oh no, Tink, seeing that look on your face just sealed yourfate. From now on, it’ll be impossiblenotto say things like that around you.”
