She nods.
“But you baked for me?”
Her eyes slide away. She shrugs quickly before putting the bottle to her lips and working a deep pull from the bottle. “You saved me. And she could eat them too.”
That’s debatable. “You let me into your house?”
“In all fairness, you let yourself in.”
“That I did.” I don’t mention she cupped my jaw. Or that I could smell her.
Maybe another time. But now I’m curious about the cute girl who’s tempted to do illegal shit, while wrapped up in a package of sensible pants and button-down tops. “I—” I start, only to be interrupted by a voice over the fence from the garage.
“I can smell it from here. Tell me you didn’t fuck it up because I’m hungry.” The last syllable dies in the back of Fitzgerald Young’s throat as he takes in the scene. What must appear like a date under the stars with the Rockies on as background noise halts my friend in a stutter step before his momentary pause is gone.
We clap hands when he gets to me then he turns and, with all the south Texas charm he can muster, he extends a palm. “Hi, I’m Fitz. You’re a pleasant surprise.”
“She’s not a pleasant anything.” That comes out all wrong, but Fitz gets the message loud and clear.
“I see.” The man grins. He hikes a thumb over his shoulder. “Gonna grab a bowl and see if you did my chili justice.”
“It needs work,” Lorien spits with some irritation. I’m not sure whether her insult is at Fitz for his recipe or me for my cooking. Or my poorly-worded phrase.
“How would you tweak it?” I ask when the other man is finally gone.
The grin that hits her mouth is malevolent. “Cinnamon rolls.”
I throw my head back and laugh.
She’s a testy one. I wasn’t wrong about the spine of steel or her willfulness. That’s a problem because my cock is a fan too. She’s feisty and strong but seems docile when you crack the prickly shell. Not five minutes ago she was awkward and cute. And she has an ass that beckons me to get on my knees.
“Let’s see how you did.” Fitz has returned with a bowl of his own and heads to the smoker to scoop out some dinner. “Smells right.” He takes a bite. “Not bad, Murphy. I’m impressed.”
“It needs beans,” Lorien mutters petulantly.
“Woman.” Fitz puts a hand over his heart. “You wound me. Or at least irk me. Beans don’t belong in chili.”
“The rest of the country disagrees.” She lifts her eyebrows in challenge.
“The rest of the country’s opinions mean little to Texans.”
This is the most I’ve heard the man speak at one time. He’s usually the silent type. That should resume.
“The opinions of Texans matter little to the rest of the country,” Lorien mutters under her breath, quiet enough that only I can hear it.
I can’t help my laugh or stop myself from clinking her now empty bottle. She doesn’t reciprocate.
“Well, thank you for dinner.” She stands and sets the empty bottle in line with her first and gestures to the seat she just vacated. “Fitz, do you need a chair?” To me, she says with more chill in her voice than I expect, “Thank you for dinner, Liam. I appreciate it.” And then she sways that perfect ass away.
I start counting in my head because Lorien Anderson seems to live within the box of societal norms. I’ve gotten to eleven when I hear “Pumpkin balls” and a low growl.
She returns through the gate brandishing her bowl, extending it to me. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to steal your bowl.”
My lips twitch. Hell, my beard is full-on dancing as I reach for it. “Thanks, Lorien. Glad you enjoyed it.”
She spins on her heel and disappears into the night.
I fight not to laugh at her obvious annoyance and turn up the ballgame. Not so loud as to be annoying, but enough to remind her we’re outside and so our voices don’t drift.
