Tripp steps over with the cutting board full of vegetables. The slices are a bit uneven, but I didn’t exactly expect a perfect julienne from him.
“Relax, Quinnie,” he mutters under his breath. “They’re gonna figure out something’s up if you keep acting like a nutcase.”
“I’m no good at this,” I say, dread pooling in my stomach.
“You’re perfect, honey. Just don’t act so guilty.”
I glance up at him, wide-eyed.
“But Iamguilty.”
Tripp chuckles as I scrape the vegetables into the skillet.
“Never take up a life of crime. You’d be terrible at it.”
I can’t help the grin that breaks free. “I know.”
I cook the vegetables while everyone else sets the table and gets Pops settled to eat. I try to get my body to calm down while I stir in the seasonings.
Tripp’s right. I need to relax. There’s nothing to worry about right now. But if I don’t keep my guilty conscience in check, everyone is going to figure out something is going on between us. I force my body to relax, one muscle at a time.
When everything’s ready, I bring the skillet to the table and take a seat between Pops and Tripp. I put together a fajita and set it on Pops’ plate. He eyes it suspiciously.
“I think those tortillas are old or something.”
I give him a questioning look.
“They’re brown,” he grumbles.
I sigh. “They’re whole-grain tortillas. They’re healthier for you.”
Pops pokes at the food and mutters something unintelligible before taking a bite.
“Tastes like cardboard. Where’s the meat?“
Tripp chuckles beside me, and Wes rolls his eyes.
“Quit your bitchin’, old man,” Sawyer says. “You just had heart surgery. We’re making sure you don’t croak.”
Pops’ bushy eyebrows pull down, and he takes another tentative bite.
“It isn’t poison,” I mutter to him.
“The food’s great, Quinnie,” Tripp says, mouth full.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
He slides a hand to my thigh under the table and gives it a gentle squeeze. I tense under his touch.
How can he be so damn cavalier about touching me like this? Everyone is right here at the table.
I try not to squirm under his hand as I poke at my food—hyper-aware of the way his thumb is making slow, soothing circles over my inner thigh.
I finally manage a bite, though I barely taste it with Tripp’s hand still comfortably settled on my thigh. I try not to look at him, force myself not to react. I will a flush not to rise in my cheeks and pretend I can’t feel his thumb inching higher.
And then I feel it.
Eyes on me.
