I don’t go to the refrigerator for pie, though. Despite the ridiculousness of her making cake for a guy who doesn’t like pie—who, it turns out, does actually like pie—I grab the apple-caramel cake pan and pull it toward me. I didn’t sample it earlier because I had tried all of the pie, but it looked damn good, and I feel like any attempt that I’m making to lay down rules or put up boundaries or have even a hint of good intentions has all already gone to hell.
Having Thanksgiving dinner with Everett at my family’s table has only made me like him more.
The last thing I fucking need.
It wasn’t just the story about his family, or the easy way he fell into conversation with everyone I love, or how he ate as if no one had actually ever given the poor guy mashed potatoes before. It was the way he watched everyone. He likes them.Every single one of those people around the table, whom I love with all my heart, Everett legitimately likes. He had this goofy, half-amused, half-fascinated look on his face the entire time.
How am I supposed to not want to kiss him when he becomes so easily infatuated with the bunch of goofballs I call family?
I fill a glass of water and cross to the breakfast bar with the glass and cake pan. I climb up on a stool, leaving one stool between us.
As if that’s going to make any difference. I am so aware of him, my body feels like it’s humming.
“You seem to be having a good time here,” I say.
“I’m having a great time,” he agrees easily. He meets my gaze. “In case you didn’t know, you have an amazing family.”
I can’t even tease or joke in that moment. I smile. “I do know that.”
I pull the top off the cake pan and lift a piece onto a plate. I replace the lid, push the pan away, pick up a fork, and take a deep breath.
“So, since you’re here, I have some questions,” I say to him.
“Anything you want to know.” He takes a huge bite of caramel apple pie.
I watch him chew. How can the bunching and relaxing of muscles be sexy? Especially throat muscles?
“You’ll answer them? No matter what?”
He swallows and I remember running my mouth and tongue up and down his throat and the low growling noise he made when I did it.
Oh yeah,that’show throat muscles can be sexy.
I squeeze my legs together and take a bite of cake.
Fuck. That is good.
“I’ll make a deal with you,” he says.
“A deal?” I repeat. “Like what?”
“Are these questions professional? About the business or your future job?”
“No.”
“So, they are nothing that youneedto know the answer to. Nothing that could be construed as me withholding important information from an employee.”
I have no idea what he’s getting at. “No. I guess not. Just things Iwantto know.”
He reaches for his glass of milk and takes a long drink, then sets it down and pivots on his stool to look at me. “Then here’s my offer. For every question you ask and I answer, I get a kiss.”
I arch both brows. “You have to be kidding.”
He shakes his head. “Not even a little. You want answers, and I want kisses. We can both get what we want.”
Except I want kisses too.
I shake my head. “That feels like extortion.”
