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“No,” I repeat, scrunching my toes to try to keep myself steady. He’s too damn close. I’m going to lose it. The way he smells…the way he’s looking at me… All I can think about is what his lips taste like.
“Your boss is giving you an order,” he says in a low tone that pulls me from my haze.
“How about one task at a time, hm? I’m still finishing the last order my boss gave me.”
“Try. It.” He pokes me with the egg roll, smearing sauce all over my top lip. “Boop.”
I inhale slowly, then exhale even slower, trying to exercise some gentle parenting techniques. I don’t shout at him. I don’t deck him in the face. “You’re not tipsy, you’re drunk, aren’t you?” I accuse, before chomping down on the egg roll just to get him off my back. I tried toaccidentallynip his finger, but the jerk is too fast.
He basically force-fed me, butdamndoes real food feel good. I chew, savoring the medley of flavors in my mouth. I’m so distracted by the relief of real food in my mouth, I’m completely caught off-guard when Nathan swipes a finger over my top lip, clearing the sauce. He pops the finger into his mouth, releasing a soft, rumbly moan.
“See? So good.” Nathan’s wearing a smug smirk as he watches my jaw sweeping the floor.What the hell is he playing at?
He continues nonchalantly, “I’m not normally a fan of fusion food, but this is something else. And here I always thought a Cuban sandwich was made with ham.”
I want to take the rest of the egg roll from his hand and shove it down my throat, whole. My stomach churns in misery, begging for more solid sustenance before I go back to restricting myself to liquid protein. I also secretly want to bathe in this sauce and see what else he’s tempted to sample. More than anything, I hate how he has this hold over me.Hate it.I want to be as impervious to Nathan as I am to any other man because logic tells me not to want what I can’t have. It’ll end in heartbreak.
I quickly redirect the conversation. “My dad would make them with mojo-brined roasted porkandham. You need both for a real Cubano. He’d hate this sauce, though. Plain mustard only.”
“You’re Cuban?”
“A quarter. My dad was black and Cuban.”
“Was?” Nathan asks softly. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, no, he’s alive…I think. I don’t know. He left us when I was little and”—I pop my shoulders—“he just never looked back.”
“And your mom?”
I pause for a moment, feeling the sudden weight of the conversation. “My momwasfair-skinned, with platinum-blonde hair and light blue eyes. She was my dad’s polar opposite. She died five years ago.”
“Oh.” He doesn’t say “sorry” again. Instead, we make our peace with the uncomfortable silence. What could he possibly say? An apology never fixes it. All the empathy in the world doesn’t bring her back. But I appreciate the torn expression he’s wearing. It’s probably in my head, but I get the feeling he’d like to embrace me. Except that reminds me, I’m not the woman he’s interested in taking home tonight.
“Should you get back to Shaylin?”Dammit.The question comes out with an edge of jealousy I’ve been keeping locked down.
“I ordered her a car and sent her home,” Nathan answers, plainly.
My whole body relaxes at the surprisingly good news. “But I thought…”
“It was a business dinner. We talked business, now it’s over.”
I could make a comment about how their cuddling didn’t look likejust businessbut I don’t want to ruin this moment. He’sactually acting human, and I don’t know how long we have until he turns back into a toad.
“Want some help with the dishes?” Nathan reaches for my sponge, his fingers brushing mine for a beat longer than necessary. The brief contact sends a flutter through my chest.
“Very nice of you to offer.” My smile grows, heat rising to my face as I notice his gaze dropping south of my lips.It’s an obvious invitation, right?“What do you want in exchange?” I mean it to be a little flirty. I keep playing hopscotch with this line of hate and longing, my body refusing to align with my better judgment.
He deadpans, “For you to quit.”
I’m stunned into momentary silence. If it weren’t for the suddenly stone-like stare on his face, I’d think I misheard. “Excuse me?”
“I can’t fire you without risking a wrongful termination suit, which I think you’re clever enough to file. So, I’d like you to quit.”
“Why?”
He tilts his head ever so slightly. “Spencer, come on. We’re not going to work well together. Why do you need such a serious job, anyway? I looked at your employment file—you’re twenty-three. Still a baby. You’re in Las Vegas. Bartend at a cool club, or deal blackjack or something. Party every night. You have plenty of time to grow up. Office jobs aren’t going anywhere. Be a kid while you can, you know?”
That word again.My heart is now racing for an entirely different reason. I snatch the sponge out of his hand in a dramatic show of rejecting his help. “You have a gift, Nathan.”