“Females do.”
“Sensible, of course. So you have a harem of bettas. Fits.”
He laughed. “They’re surprisingly good company. And they don’t talk back.”
“I bet that’s what you like most about them,” I muttered.
The golden one swam up to the glass where my finger rested, curious but keeping her distance.
I watched Sebastian sprinkle spices from several mismatched jars into a small bowl. Then came a drizzle of olive oil and a thoughtful stir with a teaspoon. He’d changed into a plain white T-shirt and soft-looking shorts, barefoot and relaxed. The air conditioning was set to perfection.
I pursed my lips. “So, what can I do to help?”
“Nothing.” He shot me a grin. “Just sit there and look pretty.”
His brown eyes lingered a beat too long—and not on my face. His gaze had landed on the sequined raccoon across my chest, and not because he appreciated woodland creatures. In my haste to be authentic, I’d skipped a bra under the white cotton, and the sequins weren’t doing me any favors. If anything, the raccoon looked like it had a couple of confused snouts where its eyes should be.
I fake-coughed and crossed my arms, hoping the fabric would shift. “Cute. But seriously, I want to help. What can I do?”
Sebastian blinked as though he was just snapping out of a trance and turned back to his spice bowl. He frowned a little, probably trying to remember what he’d just added.
“Do you like red or white wine?” he asked.
“I’m not much of a wine drinker, but I guess white.”
“There’s a bottle chilling in the fridge. Can you open it?”
“Sure.” I rushed to the fridge, grateful for the excuse to look away, and maybe cool off my entire upper body.
I found the bottle of wine and, with a few quick instructions from Sebastian, tracked down the corkscrew. I wasn’t exactly asommelier, but it was basic physics. One twist, one pull, and pop—we had wine.
“Great, thanks,” he said, not looking up. “Glasses are in that cabinet. Can you reach them?”
I padded over to the elegant wooden cabinet and stretched up to open the paneled door.
“Which ones?”
No answer. I turned my head and caught him staring at my ass. Olive oil dribbled from the teaspoon in his hand and splattered onto the table. It took him a few seconds to notice.
His gaze snapped up. He cleared his throat, poorly. “Um... top shelf. Can you reach them?”
“Oh, I’ve got them.”
Feeling mischievous, I arched my back just a little more. My shorts obligingly rode up, the hem inching higher like a curtain before a very sexy play.
Sebastian swallowed so loudly I thought he might need the Heimlich.
I returned to the table, set the glasses down with saintlike composure, and watched him head to the fridge to retrieve the chicken breasts. As I poured the wine, he trickled his olive oil spice blend over the meat and began massaging it.
He wasn’t rushing it. He coated every inch with slow, circular strokes, turning the chicken over until each inch was glistening.
It was my turn to swallow. “Is that how you do it?”
“If you want to do it right, you’ve got to use your fingers.” His voice was gravelly.
Dear God. Was he talking about the chicken?
Because if not, I had some follow-up questions.
