“You’d be surprised what you’ll read when you’re bored enough in the desert.”
She picks up a plate. “Do you want some more, or should I eat this?”
Cheesecake? Oh, hell no.
“No, you have it.”
She lifts the fork, and something tightens low in my gut. Don’t watch her eat. DO NOT watch her eat.
I yank the fridge open for distraction and find labeled containers: Christmas Eve Dinner. Christmas Day Breakfast. Prime Rib for Christmas Dinner.
More reminders that she and I are alone.
Rattled, I dig around for something. Anything. A fire-extinguisher-size bottle of water would be handy for how dry my throat is right now.
“That fridge is amazing.” She appears at my elbow, brushing close enough to make my pulse stumble. Her scent—lavender and something purely her—slides through my bloodstream, kicking up my adrenaline.
“They really went all out,” she murmurs.
I slug the entire bottle in one swallow like I’ve been wandering the desert for three years.
“Marshall doesn’t do anything halfway,” I say, panting slightly as I back away, needing air before I touch dessert—and I don’t mean cheesecake.
She trails her fingertip along a bottle of champagne, slow enough to be lethal.
Fuck.
Too much.
I can’t take the sight of her, the smell of her, the temptation in every line of her body. I head for the walk-in pantry like it’s a bunker.
God willing, they’ve got oxygen tanks in there.
Because I can’t fucking breathe.
CHAPTER 7
He narrates as he gathers supplies from the gigantic pantry that he stormed into like he was on a raid.
“Cocoa mix. Peppermint schnapps, and a bottle of whiskey so expensive I wouldn’t even breathe near it.”
I’m grinning.No,I’m glowing.
“Grab the whole milk from the fridge,” he calls, “you’re getting real cocoa. No packet shit for you, baby doll.”
Baby doll.
The husky words detonate somewhere in my chest.
What?
The.
Actual.
Hell.
I’ve never felt this sensation before.
