Page 85 of Bottle Shock
While the chicken rests, I grate a clove of garlic into a bowl of thick yogurt, stir in diced cucumber, dill, salt, and another squeeze of lemon.
As I’m plating the food—layering the quinoa first, cucumber and tomato salad, sliced chicken over the top, and crumbling feta to finish it off—Scottie leans over, inspecting my work.
“Smells good. What is it?”
“Greek chicken bowls.”
We eat at the island, my knee accidentally brushing against hers, and I try my best to ignore the jolt that runs through me because of it.
She closes her eyes after the first bite, moaning, and I swear I almost forget how to breathe.
“This is really good,” she says around a small, pleased sigh. “Like really good.”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” I say, but the truth is I’m basking in it. Soaking it in. I’d cook for her every day if she asked.
We fall into easy conversation. She tells me more about the showing—how the client asked how difficult it would be to soundproof a room, and how she suspected he had plans to turn it into a sex room. I laugh so hard I nearly choke on my chicken.
When we finish, I gather our bowls and rinse them in the sink, not rushing—because every second she’s here is a second I get to keep her.
“So,” I begin, drying my hands on a dish towel like it’s no big deal. “Want to watch a movie?”
Her brows lift, gaze sparkling. “Almost sounds like you’re trying to get me to stay, Ledger?”
Yes. God, yes.
I clear my throat. “Just thought it’d be nice. House is quiet. I can’t remember the last time I watched a movie that didn’t have animated characters.”
She studies me for a moment too long—like she sees through the excuse, and maybe she does, but she doesn’t call me out on it. Her mouth pulls into a grin, chin dipping, ocean eyes clear and beautiful and devastatingly disarming.
“Okay,” she says softly. “A movie sounds nice.”
Relief hits hard enough I have to grip the counter.
She glances down at her slacks, making a face. “Mind if I change into something more comfortable first?”
“Yeah. Of course.” My voice comes out rough. Too rough.
I head to my room and pull on sweats and a T-shirt—nothing special, but even the idea of her changing is doing things to me I probably shouldn’t examine.
When I return to the living room, she walks in from the back door at the same time.
And it takes every ounce of restraint I have not to stare.
She’s in an oversized T-shirt—the kind that falls to mid-thigh. I’m pretty sure she’s wearing shorts under there, but they’re barely visible. She looks comfortable, effortless. Her long legs on display, face free of makeup, hair pulled into a loose knot.
Fucking stunning.
It’s not like she’s trying to be sexy. She just is. And somehow that’s worse. Or better. I don’t know. I can’t think.
She tucks one side of the shirt under her thigh as she sits on the couch, casual like she’s not trying to kill me.
“What are we watching?”
“I—uh—” I clear my throat again, useless. “I’ll let you pick.”
She smiles, small and familiar and warm, and pats the cushion beside her.
I sit. Not too close. Not far either.
