Perhaps cooking her a meal was too much, and I’ve scared her off for good.
As I spin every burner dial to its lowest setting, I glance toward the doorway for the umpteenth time. Still empty.
For every step closer I take, she takes two steps back. It feels like a dance—and not the flirtatious sort I’m accustomed to.
Frustration makes me mix my revisited pesto with too much vigor, and a dollop splashes onto the navy stone backguard. I ball a few sheets of towel paper and swipe the spot. As I turn to toss it, I catch sight of Electra, and my mind blanks.
I must forget to breathe because my lungs cramp, requesting oxygen.
Fuck me…
The girl who always keeps her legs cloaked in pants and leggings has them on full display. And when I sayfulldisplay, I mean that if she, at any moment, leans over, I’ll become familiar with her underwear preferences.
She strolls over to me, making the sequined slip she wears ride up her sun-kissed thighs.
Jesus. I wasn’t prepared for this. Neither her return nor her choice of outfit. What does it mean that she wore a dress? And not just any dress, but one clearly designed to entice.
My gaze draws back up to her face, then to the wadded towel paper I’m white-knuckling before journeying back to her legs. It’s a game we’re playing. One that isn’t real, even though I’ve got her convinced I’m gone for her.
I finally make it to the bin. After tossing the soiled paper, I clear my throat. “Wear that dress for me?”
“No, I wore it forme; I’d never dress for a man.” Her tone is so flat that if I hadn’t done my research on her, I’d believe her. But this girl never dresses provocatively.
Electra peeks under the steel lids of the pans. “What do you think of my kitchen?”
“It’s a wet dream. A lot like its owner.” I take in the sharp glint of steel and the smoky hue of the glass cabinetry.
“Its owner is technically my father. I’ll be sure to convey your message.”
I shake my head, smirking.
“I think it’s cold.” Her gaze moves across the room, its size rivaling the apartment the organization assigned my family and in which I lived until I left.
“Cold can still be beautiful.” I don’t add:Like you. I don’t think she’d take it as a compliment even though it would be meant as one.
She reaches for a glass in one of the cupboards, her dress rising so high I catch the undercurve of her ass. The shadowed glimpse sets off my pulse and hardens my cock until I’m certain it punches through my ridiculous apron.
I roll my shoulders back and push my glasses up. “Half the pans were still in their packaging.”
“Because I don’t cook. I either order in or head over to the Blooms, who love to feed me.” She carries the etched glass to thesink and fills it with purified tap water, halting beside the open cookbook I brought from my camper.
The one she’s visited, even though I’m not supposed to remember she broke in. Like my high-tops, the book was a dangerous oversight. I might’ve found a convincing excuse, but it’s done little to completely settle my nerves.
“My father tried to teach me,” she says, flipping through the pages of one of Quinn’s birthday presents to me, “but it wasn’t for me.”
She finally flips back to the pesto sauce recipe I’ve scribbled over to make the recipe mine, then turns and leans a hip against the counter, ankles crossed, her golden legs disappearing into a pair of motorcycle boots.
I never gave much thought to the sexiest outfit a woman could wear, but seeing how my sweats are feeling like compression tights, I’m inclined to think that what Electra has on is it.
Even if another part of me demands relief, I take it out on my nape, before remembering one of the things I bought to set the mood. I dig the six-pack ofPopsout of the crowded fridge. Quinn insists that one can never go wrong giving a girl champagne.
“Trying to get me drunk, Lowry?” Electra’s velvet voice rolls right down my abdomen.
“Relaxed.” I hand it over. “Not drunk.”
“I’m plenty relaxed. Don’t I look relaxed to you?”
“You look…” I lose my train of thought as I—again—devour all of her that’s on display.
