Again, my jibe doesn’t land. The harder I try, the more it riles me up when I don’t get the reaction I’m going for here.
I want himpissed. I want him gone, out of my kitchen and out of our town that doesn’t need another asshole. Ideally with his tail between his legs, realizing he’s been talking smack this whole time to what would’ve been his future boss. Instead, everything I say rolls off his back and he keeps finding ways to spin my words around on me.
For the first time since I’ve been back here, Wilder finally turns around, pan in hand. He slides the meat out with ease, plating it with precision, which also pisses me off. A big oaf like that, shaking a pan, shouldn’t it be landing with a splash, juices spraying the stainless steel surfaces, making a mess and ruining the presentation of it all?
Come on, universe. We’re looking for more reasons to hate this guy. Work with me here.
His eyes flick up briefly, enough to take in the fact that I’m standing there, watching, and his mouth twitches.
“Still thirsty, huh?”
The smug implication in his words makes me want to throw my water at him. Calling me horny. The man doesn’t even know me.
“No, actually. Dry as a cactus now.”
“You know cactus are wet on the inside, right?” One of his dark brows raises, the one with the scar in it. “Prickly exterior,moistinside?” His tone is downright filthy. I’m gonna need two showers when I get home. “And they arealwaysthirsty. Takes a lot to fill up a?—”
“Good God, are you a cactus expert? What does it take to get you to shut up?”
His response is already on the tip of his tongue. “I can think of a number of ways you could get me to shut up.”
Is he always so brazen with women he’s just met?
I narrow my eyes at him, not humoring him with a response.
The heat from the range must be hitting me all the way back here, because my face feels even hotter now, sweat starting to bead along my hairline once again. Lifting my ponytail, I place the cool cup against my neck and shiver at the change in temperature, but it helps.
I avoid his eyes as he turns around again, a different pan in his large grip.
His hands actually dwarf the colossal industrial-sized pans. They’re big enough to do some damage.
It’s more than his tattooed skin that screams danger, everything about him is a warning.
The honey badger in me doesn’t care. She wants to get close enough to strike, take him down with teeth, claws, and her weapon of choice, a savage tongue.
But when I feel his gaze land on my body, register the way the chill breaks out across my flesh at the feel of the icy condensation against my warm skin, that’s not the only reason I want to get close. I put the cup down, flustered.
His eyes are heavy on my curves beneath the denim, and clearly I’m having heat stroke, because I swear I can almost feel his rough hands grip me as his black irises rake down my thick form, like these overalls and ten feet of space aren’t between us.
It’s making me feel things I don’t think anyone in this town ever has. Tugging, teasing, stoking at my insides in a way that makes me feel faint.
The walls start to blur, then everything goes black, and the floor welcomes my face.
THREE
WILDER
My reflex kicks in, no stranger to life or death situations, and I dive to the floor to catch the gardener. Thankful for my size (as I often am), because it means my fingers make it under her skull before it cracks against the industrial tile flooring.
Cradling her head of messy cocoa and chestnut curls, it hits me that her hair’s got as much spirit as the rest of her. Wild, out of control, and full of life, they suit her.
Her eyes blink, hazy and confused, staring up into mine. I slip my other arm under her knees and lift her as she regains consciousness. Carrying her to the expo station, I place her gently on the stainless steel surface and position her so she’s sitting there, resting with her upper back against the top shelf of the window.
Keeping one hand on her, I side-step so I can turn the last gas burner off and return to her fully. Steadying her from where her bare knees bend over the edge of the counter, my hands brace her as she wakes fully.
“You diabetic?” I ask her. “Glycemic?”
Her mouth pulls in a cute little scowl, but seems she only has energy to shake her head softly a couple times.
