“So good! The perfect crispness.”
June and Clarke’s voices melded together while they fawned over him and his alleged cooking prowess.
“And what do you think, angel?” he asked, zeroing in on me.
June’s eyes ping-ponged between us. “Angel?”
“Just a little inside joke,” Pink explained quickly. “Right,Nessa?”
“Something like that.”
He lifted a brow, indicating that he was still waiting for an answer to his original question. “I’m sure they’re great, but I haven’t tried any yet.”
His head tilted to one side. “Please, help yourself.”
“Maybe later. Should we head in?”
“In a minute.”
I faltered, searching for another excuse.Anyexcuse. It seemed like no matter what I said or did, Pink always had a response. And that pissed me off even more because how did a twenty-four-year-old millionaire have all the answers, while I could barely string a sentence together some days?
“I haven’t . . . washed my hands.”
That was the best I could come up with—blame it on the two glasses of slutty iced tea on an empty stomach.
His eyes shone with mischief, making my heart—and vagina—flutter.
“I can fix that.”
Dani eyed him, an unspoken question in her eyes, when he reached toward the tray she was still holding. With one hand, he dragged a lone fry through a glop of pink sauce and held it out to me.
“Bite.”
“You’ve got to be joking.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t say a word or retract his hand. My eyes bounced between him and our captivated audience, all of whom were watching us like a lost episode ofOne Tree Hill.How could they possibly be encouraging this?
When my attention dipped down to the offering between his fingers—more specifically, to the gloppy sauce on the end of the fry—another thought crossed my mind.
“I don’t think I can eat that anyway.” This time I wasn’t making excuses. “The sauce—”
“It doesn’t have any eggs.”
I blinked, taken aback for an entirely different reason this time. I was in fact allergic to eggs, but how had he known that? He certainly hadn’t heard it from me. I could barely stand to be in the same room as the guy, so it was safe to say that we had never had a conversation about our food allergens. And yet somehow, he’d known.
Somehow, he’d remembered.
He stepped closer still. Close enough for me to smell the vinegary fry sauce and minty freshness on his breath. And all the while, his eyes never left mine.
“Bite, angel.”
His tone was firm but gentle. If the pro-baseball thing didn’t work out for him, he might want to give smutty audiobooks a go.
I opened my mouth, acting on instinct rather than reason—there’d be more than enough time for self-flagellation later. For now, I wanted to be bad. If he wanted to go low, I’d go lower.
All the way to my knees.
Okay, maybe that was a little much. But that didn’t stop me from leaning forward to close the final few inches between my mouth and his fingers. His gaze narrowed when I wrapped my lips around the fry and sucked it in.
