“Do you have brothers or sisters?” I fought back the image of a dark-haired miniature Ford with that wicked grin running around the city like a modern-day urchin. Maybe this path wasn’t safer than mundane work questions.
“One of each. My sister Julie is six years older and terrorized my brother Nick and me.” He shuddered, and I laughed.
It was easy to laugh with him. It was easy to do everything with him except stop.
“Were you the middle child or the baby?”
He tipped his head to the side as if the answer should be obvious and maybe it was. With his ability to charm people, being the youngest made sense.
“Middle. Of course.”
So much for my powers of observation.
“What about you, cher? Where are you from?”
He watched me, his expression intent, and I fought to keep from squirming. The man’s focus was a force to be reckoned with.
“I’m from a little town outside Baton Rouge. One sister. My parents still live there.”
“Do you get back to see them often? Or maybe with your work schedule, they come here?”
“Not as often as I’d like.” It was a perfectly reasonable question, but we’d circled back to work again. A place I definitely didn’t want to go. “Explain the fascination withvampires to me again.”
If the change in subject bothered him, he didn’t let on. He relaxed back against the sofa for a moment, lost in thought.
“It’s a lot of things, but I think,” he said, after a moment, sounding like he was still working his way through his thoughts, “it’s the intensity. Everything about them is dialed up. There’s power there to be sure, but it’s mostly about the intensity of the experience. A bite that’s almost ecstatic.” It was easy to get lost in his gaze while he spoke. “A creature who thrives on another’s lifeblood and all of it wrapped up in layers of sensuality. Of pleasure as your birthright, either bestowed or as part of some kind of rebirth. It’s heady stuff.”
He tipped his head to the side and arched a brow in a way that had me fighting the urge to kiss him. An urge I was determined not to give in to.
It wasn’t the way most people thought about vampires, but I was quickly learning there wasn’t much about Ford that was like most people. He leaned forward as he spoke, and I found myself holding my breath as he painted pictures for me with his words. Before I knew what was happening, something started to buzz, and Ford reached for his phone.
“Want to check on the beignets?” he asked, silencing the alarm.
“Already?” I’d completely lost track of the time talking to Ford. Something he clearly enjoyed, if the smug, know-it-all grin on his face was any indication.
––––––––
I’M NOT SURE what the right word was for how happy I felt that Charlotte had been so caught up in our conversation, she forgot to watch the clock. I’d been lost too. If my phone hadn’t vibrated to let me know the rise was done, I’d have missed it in favor of learning more about Charlotte. Sharing more of myself with her. But my plan called for leaving her wanting more, which inevitably meant leaving me wanting more.
“Come on.” I stood and reached for her hand to help her to her feet, forcing myself to let go as soon as she was standing.
I stood back and watched as she lifted the kitchen towel covering the bowl of dough. I swear to God, I was never going to get tired of seeing that look on Charlotte’s face. I’d make it my life’s work to come up with new things to show her, just to see her eyes widen in surprise and delight. People talked about things like childlike enthusiasm, but there was nothing childlike about it. It was the force of Charlotte when something caught her interest. She was so present. That kind of focus—that kind of awareness—was seductive as hell.
“It’s grown so big.” She shot a cheeky grin over her shoulder at me, clearly intending the double entendre.
“Did you just set up athat’s what she saidjoke? We’re so much better than that.”
“Speak for yourself.”
She bit her bottom lip, and I tucked my hands in my pockets. I’d pretend it was so she could take the lead on turning out the beignet dough, but the reality was I didn’t trust myself not to reach for her. To pull her into my arms and tug her lip between my teeth, catching her answering gasp with my mouth and kissing her until she went soft and pliant in my arms. I was going to have to spend a significant amount of time later reminding myself why that wasn’t the brilliant idea it seemed in the moment.
“What do we do now, chef?”
Right. We were making food, not devouring each other.
“Put a little flour on the counter, turn out the dough and roll out the beignets. You’ve got a rolling pin, right? We can use a wine bottle if not.”
“Ye of little faith.” She muttered the words, more to herself than to me, and dug around in a cabinet, emerging with a sleek wooden rolling pin that looked like it had never seen action.
