“It might,” Phoenix deadpans, his brow raising the slightest bit.
“It really won’t.”
“Says who? Smiling is exhausting and I’ll have to do it for the next six hours. Gotta rest my muscles.” He rolls his neck from side to side like that has anything to do with what we’re arguing about.
“And they say women are dramatic,” I grumble, and I swear I can see his lips twitch out of the corner of my eye. It’s so fleeting I can’t be sure.
But a girl can dream.
Because Phoenix Banks is a dream.
An annoyingly good-looking dream that manages to stand literally everywhere in the kitchen I need to be.
When Cora and I work an event, in the truck or out of it, we’re a well-oiled machine. We don’t even have to talk, just sidestep and hand the other what they need while still stirring, mixing, or otherwise filling orders.
“But seriously,” I say, pointing to the tray warmers, “we’re just doing the food so if you step foot out there for any reason…” I pause and he pulls me into his chest.
“I’ll smile, baby.”
My breath catches and where I expect to findoh shit, I didn’t mean to say that out loudwritten all over his expression, all I find is conviction. His eyes blaze with heat as mine dart to his lips before meeting his gaze, my body humming with anticipation. Leaning in, I tilt my face up to meet his, and I want this so bad I can already taste him on my tongue.
Crash!
The sound of a plate shattering just outside the kitchen door is enough to make me jump out of Phoenix’s reach.
I am at work.
I repeat the words over and over because I forgot, and even though Cora would probably laugh, I won’t disrespect our name and reputation for a kiss.
Even if it would’ve been a panty-melting one.
Dammit.
“Hands to yourself,” I hiss and he holds his hands up, palms facing me, the picture of innocence despite the devilish smirk.
“As you wish.”
“You know damn well that’s not what I wish.” Grabbing another bowl of salad, I nod toward the list on the counter. “Go count something.”
His laugh is the last thing I hear as I push my way out through the swinging door, careful not to step on any of the plate remnants. Arranging the bowl, I step back and take a couple of pictures for our social media and Cora, attaching them in a text and hitting send.
Her response is immediate.
CORA: Oh my gosh it looks AMAZING!
CORA: Thank you so much for handling this—I’m so damn proud of you!
ASPEN: I’m proud of us (heart emoji)
CORA: YOU did this. I can’t wait to hear all about it!
Tuckingmy phone back into the pocket of my black pants, I smooth my red sweater down with my palms because true to his word, Phoenix Banks wore the shirt declaring me his favorite color.
And honestly, I can’t find any fault in that.
18
PHOENIX
