He jerks back like he realizes what he just did, then scratches the back of his head, showing off some impressive abs and smooth skin, plus one large tattoo that goes down his right side.
“A dragon?” I point at it.
“They’re fierce, and I wanted to piss my dad off, so I found the biggest one I could do with my pain tolerance and went for it.” He winks and walks over to the stove.
The table is set.
A bottle of wine sits in the middle, already opened, and both glasses are poured like a real date.
He even has the white linen tablecloth on correctly.
A single red rose lays across my plate.
Hmm, maybe it won’t be so bad…
“Shit! Fuck! Motherfucking chicken!” Jack shouts.
I nearly break an ankle as I rush over to see that he’s burned one side and is on his way to burning the other which means no points for us unless I step in. “Let me help.”
“I’ve got this.” He jerks away from me.
“No, you burned an actual shirt from your body. Jack, that doesn’t scream I’ve got this; that screams fire department and burning down an entire office building!”
“I can do it.” He takes a deep breath. “So how was, um, getting ready in that thing you call a dress.”
“Ah, this old thing?” I lean against the counter. “Let’s just say I almost had to open it up with scissors, turn it into a scarf, and walk in here half-naked.”
He drops the spatula and picks it up again. “And that would be bad because…?”
“Ew!” I smack him. “You barely know me.”
“Correction.” He points the spatula at me. “I’ve known you since middle school. We just never ran in the same circles.”
“Rich people circles.”
“Oh no, I meant popular people circles.” He winks.
I want to wrap my dress around his neck and squeeze.
“You look nice, though,” he says. “And I say that as your partner.”
I strut over to the table and grab my glass of wine. “Hope you have more of this because I’m about ready to slam this entire bottle.”
“Be my guest.” He keeps cooking or attempting to cook. The oven goes off, and half-naked Jack grabs his oven mitts and pulls out fresh bread. He also has the salad already made and on the table and what looks like fresh asparagus in the oven with the bread.
“Smells good.” I sip the wine. It’s clearly expensive. I check out the label and sigh. “Emory Wines?” I hold it up. “Is everything an Emory product?”
“Even my spatula.” Jack holds it up. “It’s insane. The guy tries to market everything. Probably why he’s rich.”
“Probably why he can afford to put us through hell to test all of his new products without paying a few six-figure sums to the R&D team.”
Jack snorts. “I think he just likes torture.”
“That too.” I toss back more wine and suddenly start to get hot. Maybe the alcohol is getting to me? I ate today, though, and half a glass shouldn’t really do much to me.
I start to fan myself. My cheeks are heating, and something starts to pulse down my neck—down my body, actually. What the hell?
Jack turns off the stove and starts plating all the food. When he’s done, he brings the plates over and sets them on the table, then freezes and looks over at me. “What are you wearing?”
“A dress?”
“Not the damn dress.” He swallows slowly; his eyes dilate as he takes a step toward me and inhales. “What perfume are you wearing?”
“What they put in the basket, why?”
“No, it’s not even—” He gets closer, crowding me against the counter. “It smells like candy, but the good kind you could lick and lick and lick and—” He stops himself again. “Is this a trick?”
“Is what a trick? God, I’m so hot I could take my entire dress off. Isn’t it hot in here? It feels hot!” I start fanning myself.
He starts taking labored breaths.
I don’t know who reaches out first, but suddenly I’m in his arms, and he’s staring at my mouth like he wants to participate in the licking, not the eating of dinner.
I gulp. “I think it’s the pheromones.”
“You put on pheromones!”
“It was part of my task!”
“THEN UNTASK IT!” he yells. “Untask it right the hell now!” He lets out a moan. “Fuck… you smell good.”
“Let’s just eat the chicken,” I say in a shaky voice.
He stumbles back and pulls out my chair. It topples over twice before he gets it to stay. He goes for his and sits so close to the edge he nearly falls onto the floor. Then he continues to Edward Cullen vampire stare at me for the next five minutes before he apparently realizes what he’s been doing. “Sorry.”
“I smell. I know.”
His voice is raspy, needy. “So much better than my burned chicken.”
“Hey, you at least cooked it!” Too well, but I didn’t add that.