I had locked and bolted the door behind me when the phone buzzed in my hand. Stupid with fatigue, I stared at the unfamiliar number, the single word message.Hungry? E
Hungrywas my blog. ButE... ThatE...
My heart tripped. It was Eric. He knew. I was busted as a food critic. Anidiot hipster food blogger.
Except... I pressed my fingers to my eyes, forcing my sleep-deprived brain to think. He was texting me. At one in the morning. I knew what that meant. Booty call.
Hungry?
I smiled, sagging against the door, weak with relief and happiness.Starving,I typed.
The doorbell for the front entrance buzzed, making me jump and clutch the phone.Let me up?
I mashed the button to admit him to the building. Unlocked my door and threw it open. “How did you get here so fast?” I asked as he came up the stairs.
“Uber.” He held up a white takeout bag. “I brought food.”
My smile spread. “Of course you did.” He lived to feed people. To take care of them.Service.
He gestured toward the tiny countertop. “Here?”
“Sure.” I stood back as he unloaded the bag, his big hands quickand confident. The smells of ginger, garlic, and sesame oil filled my apartment.
That was it? We were just going to eat?
I cleared my throat. “That’s an awful lot of little white boxes,” I observed.
“I wanted to give you a choice.” He met my gaze, his eyes steady on mine. “I didn’t know what you wanted.”
There was that glow, warming me from the inside out. Making me feel daring. Happy. “You,” I said, and jumped him.
God, that was good,” I said much later.
Eric kissed my temple. “Yes.”
We were naked in my loft, surrounded by half-empty cartons of Chinese takeout. I flopped back on my pillow. “I’ve never been so stuffed in my life.”
His eyes crinkled.
“Withfood,” I clarified, punching his bare shoulder.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” he said politely.
“I did.” I sat up again, kissing the place where I’d smacked him, warm, solid muscle and smooth skin. “All of it.”
He turned his head, kissing my mouth. A rich, savory kiss, flavored with soy and sex. Umami, the elusive fifth taste. I leaned into him, craving more, chasing his taste with my tongue, and...Crap. I jerked back, yanking my hand from a puddle of kung pao chicken.
Smiling, Eric righted the carton. Holding my wrist, he ate from my hand. And then, when I was feeling all melty and squirmy, he gathered the remaining cartons and stacked them. To get them out of the way? In the kitchen, his section was always immaculate, his setups pristine, everything soigné.
He caught me watching him and raised an eyebrow. “More?”
Food? Or sex? My face heated. “Maybe later.”
“As you wish.”
Like the farm boy Westley declaring his love for the Princess Bride. My heart jerked. It was one of my favorite movies. Had he seen it? But when I tried to ask, my tongue tangled. This wasn’t a fairy tale. And I was nobody’s Buttercup. I could live my own adventure, thank you very much.
“I’ve got this,” I said, grabbing a box. “I have to get up now anyway.”
