Why did she think he was referring to more than food? Because he was naughty, that was why, and his eyes glinted with mischief. Which didn’t bother her one bit.
Bran entered the kitchen. “What can I get you to drink?”
“Vodka,” she said.
He arched an eyebrow. “Rough day?”
Ireland picked up a knife and fork then paused. She wanted to grab the slab of steak on her plate and jam it in her mouth. But manners.
“Go ahead and start,” he said. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
“You have no idea,” she said, answering his initial question and cutting into the juicy meat. “One of the reasons I forgot lunch was because I spent another lunch break bridesmaid dress shopping with Cali and Gen. You’d think Cali would obsess over her wedding gown, but no, she has to go aggro over the bridesmaid dresses. Plum or silver blue? Long or short?”
“What color did she settle on?” He placed a short tumbler of vodka in front of her.
“A long, asymmetrical V-neck in a rosy latte color.” She took a bite of the steak, her eyes closing in ecstasy. The room went silent and she blinked.
Bran stared at her mouth. “First of all, when you moan like that with your eyes closed, it gives me ideas, and you said you wanted to eat first. Second, I have no idea what any of that means. Are you designing a house or picking out a dress?”
“Picking out a dress. And don’t worry. You don’t need to know what any of that means. Just as long as you tell me I look good when the time comes. You’ll be my date for Cali’s wedding, won’t you?”
He sat beside her, a bottle of Blue Moon in his hand. He leaned over and kissed her lips. “I’d love to be your date.”
She swallowed her food and grinned. She was the luckiest girl on the planet. Busy or not, sleep or no sleep, it was all good, because she was happier than she’d ever been in her life.
Bran started eating the food on his plate, and they chatted about their days. It occurred to Ireland that this was the real deal. She’d been in relationships before, but she was a couple with Bran. He supported her and she supported him. And when their bodies came together…fireworks.
Ireland cleared her throat. She’d just polished off the chocolate volcano cake and was feeling warm and satisfied, which had her thinking about other things… “So,” she said, running her fingers over the new table. “You like the table?”
Bran’s gaze tracked her fingers as he took a swig of beer, having polished off his own food long before her, even though he’d started eating after her. “You did a great job picking it out.”
She rested her head on her hand. “I only helped.”
Bran drummed his fingers on the table, his gaze set on her mouth. “Looks aren’t the true determinant of a quality piece of furniture.”
“They’re not?” she said, smiling.
“Maybe we should stress-test it. You know, for durability.”
She slid her finger across her bottom lip, as though considering the suggestion. “We wouldn’t want something flimsy.”
Bran sucked in a breath and stood abruptly. He started moving items from the table to the kitchen island. Before Ireland could help, he had the dishes off and was sweeping napkins onto the floor.
He sauntered toward her. “Now, where were we?” he said, and pulled her up and into his arms. “Oh right, stress-testing the new furniture.”
Bran slid his hands down the back of her legs and picked her up, gently setting her on the table. “So far so good.” He pressed his hands onto the table beside her hips, as though gauging it for strength.
Ireland laughed. “It’s brand new. What if we break it?”
He looked at her in all seriousness. “I can’t own a wimpy table. It will ruin my masculine mystique.”
Ireland bent over and laughed, and Bran was smiling too…while taking off her top one button at a time.
“You have no blinds. Anyone can see inside,” she said.
“Who?” he murmured over the curve of her breast, exposed now that he’d gotten her top halfway unbuttoned. “There’s nothing out there but trees and bears.”
“Bears?”
