“You’re right,” I forced myself to look unfazed and turned around, back to his sandwich.
He opened the refrigerator and then set the ketchup bottle down beside me on the counter. “Why not? I might as well try it, since you’re making me the sandwich.”
“Really? You don’t have to,” I said benevolently. Of course he had to though. It was about to change his life.
“Make me the sandwich you would want to eat,” he answered.
Good answer.
“I’ll need pickles,” I smiled at him. He deserved my smile once more.
He didn’t ask questions, just pulled out the dill chips used for burgers. I finished his sandwich with ketchup smeared on one side of the bread, mustard on the other, smoked turkey, sliced Colby cheese and pickles. This was my creation, my favorite sandwich of all time. “Ta-da! The Burgerwich,” I announced with flare.
He eyed the plate skeptically but dutifully took it when I held it out for him. He stood next to me at the counter, readying himself to take a bite when I nudged him with my hip.
“You’re not going to regret this, Fin,” I promised.
He looked up at me from under his thick eye lashes, hovering over his sandwich. An unreadable emotion passed through his dark eyes before he just gave me a confident smirk and sunk into the sandwich. He chewed for a few sEconds before taking an even bigger bite. His head bobbed up and down with approval and he made an “mmm” noise in the back of his throat.
The pizza sat forgotten in the microwave.
“Ok,” he mumbled around a bite of food. “I’ll give it you. Ketchup on a sandwich makes perfect sense.”
“You’re welcome for changing your life,” I said flippantly. I turned around so that I rested my bum against the counter.
Fin set his sandwich down and stared at me for a moment. “Is that what you think you’ve done?”
“Yep,” I mashed my lips together to hide my smile.
“You are so full of yourself,” he grumbled playfully. He stepped around me, resting his hands on the counter by my hips, trapping me against him and the cabinets.
“We have that in common,” I laughed. I put my hands lightly on his chest, warning him not to get closer. Or at least that’s what I told myself I was doing. Every time I touched the hard, sinewy muscle underneath his t-shirts I practically lost myself in lust.
“What else do we have in common?” he mumbled. He dipped his head down and he ran his nose along my collarbone. His touch was light, tickling and I had to tilt my head to the side against the rush of sensation.
“We both look good in this hoodie,” I offered breathlessly.
“That we do,” he agreed, moving over to the other side and paying attention to the crook of my neck. His warm breath fanned across my bare skin, his lips grazed my throat softly, teasingly, his hands moved from the countertop to my waist and he grasped me against him. Where his lips were gentle and tender, his grip was rough and needy. “What else?”
“We, uh,” it was getting harder to concentrate. I clutched at his shirt so that my hands wouldn’t slip around his neck like they were dying to. “We-“
“We both can’t stop thinking about that kiss the other day.” His voice was a rumble against my ear, low and confident. Before I could deny that, he said, “Ellie I like you in my sweatshirt.”
I cleared my throat nervously. He pressed a kiss to my jawline.
He was making me jelly.
“I like when you make me a sandwich.”
“Well, duh,” I giggled nervously. My breath was as shaky as my resolve. “Anybody would like me to make them a sandwich.”
He nipped playfully at my earlobe and I shivered violently leaning into him until his bite became a wet kiss, sensual…. sexy.
“I like you,” he finally admitted and his tone was so serious, sotruthfulthat I wanted him to take it back immediately.
Those words were the cold bucket of ice I needed. Because no matter what I still owed him money. And even though he liked me I instinctively knew he couldn’t let go of this debt. He needed the money for something important, or necessary, and definitely soon otherwise he wouldn’t have gone to these great lengths to get it from me. He could have pursued legal methods, but that would have taken time. He could have gone to the police, or my brothers, but he valued the money over teaching me a lesson.
“Fin, why do you need the money? Why is it so important,” I asked, my voice as neutral as I felt right now.
