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Chapter Thirty

The kitchen is getting smallerby the minute. Every time he moves or reaches for something, my body vibrates in anticipation of his proximity.

Jesus! What is this prickly, sweet ache in my chest? My hands itch to touch him again, to have him touch me. The space around us seems to disappear.

We dance around each other, stirring pots, chopping veggies, washing dishes, inches between us and sometimes not even that. A casual brush here, an awkward bump there. We weave around the chemistry of food preparation and overactive hormones.

Dylan grabs a spoon, dips it into the cranberry-orange sauce he’s making from scratch, and brings it to my lips.

“Careful, it’s hot.” His voice wraps itself around me like melted caramel.

I blow into the spoon and take a tentative bite. He tips his hand up. The sweet and tart liquid is an explosion of flavor on my tongue. I close my eyes. Savor it. Savor his nearness. “Oh my God, that’s amazing.”

He’s even closer now, his gaze darkened and locked on my mouth. I swallow. Heat pools low in my belly. I’m aware of his every breath. Lust like I have never felt before swirls inside me. It’s a demanding and hungry beast, and it wants to be fed now. Right now.

The spoon drops with a loud clatter against the tiled floor. We both jump back and freeze.

I break eye contact first and kneel to pick up the spoon at my feet. My gaze traveling down his body. Tracing the wide chest and flat stomach.

Don’t look at his crotch. Don’t look at his crotch.Do notlook at his crotch.

I look at his crotch.

Fuck.

Me.

He’s hard.

My face burns, and the heat spreads into my chest.

I force myself to look down and stare at the spoon.

The thumping of feet on the stairs reaches us.

“Duuuude, we need better music. Hey, where’s Becca?” Tommy’s on the other side of the kitchen island.

“Right here!” I wave the spoon like a flag over the island top. “Dropped the spoon.” I pop up, face still burning.

Tommy frowns. “You okay? You look a little weird …”

That would probably be the deranged smile on my face. “Yep. Fine. Got a bit of a blood rush from bending down. It happens.” What the hell? Shut up. I turn to the sink and wash the spoon way longer than is necessary. Take a peek when I see Dylan moving again. He’s messing with his phone. The music changes.

Dylan raises an eyebrow. I smile and nod my approval of his song choice. And so does Tommy. He launches into a full-on act as he sings along with Bohemian Rhapsody and gives a great imitation of Freddie Mercury.

Their attention is no longer on me. Thank God for Queen.

* * *

Dylan sits at the head of the table, I sit to Dylan’s right and Tommy to his left, across from me. The table is beautifully laden with the foods I helped prepare. There’s turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, green beans, and roasted butternut squash tossed with fresh baby spinach, dried cranberries and pecans. And the cranberry-orange sauce—I can’t look at without a tightening in my belly.

“Finally! I’m starving. Growing boy over here, you know?” Tommy points at himself with a thumb.

The different smells make my stomach grumble. Loudly.

Dylan fights a laugh. “Hungry?”

“I’m no growing boy, but I could eat.”