“You moaned when you sniffed your drink,” he pointed out.
He lied.
“I did not.”
He chuckled. “You did.”
Had she? Fine. Maybe she had.
She inhaled more. What the hell. Rebel Kenzie was on vacation with a rock star. She could drink what she wanted. As a matter of fact, she should make some rules for her time with Tucker. Cell phone off. She could eat what she wanted. The only rule she’d have this trip? There were no rules.
A smile played on her lips as she wrapped them around the cup. A trickle of heated chocolate slid over her tongue… Holy shit. This stuff was amazing. When was the last time she’d had hot cocoa?
Nineteen ninety-five. Right before she’d become a child actress on that cable channel.
She took another sip.
Sometimes her nutritionist would slip her 80 percent dark chocolate as a treat. This was not that. That was bitter. This was…she took another sip.
When she got back home she was going to buy stock in a hot chocolate company. Then it wouldn’t matter if she didn’t get any more movie parts because she could sit around in the California sun and drink hot cocoa.
Tucker cleared his throat.
She glanced to him.
“Seriously, Kenzie. You’re practically making love to that cup.”
“It’s been a while.” She shrugged and dabbed at her lips with the coarse napkin.
A flare of heat stirred in his eyes.
She rolled her eyes. “I mean since I’ve had hot chocolate, Tucker.”
A slow smile spread across his cheeks. “What else have you been abstaining from?”
“Bread,” she said, immediately. “Also, cheese. And sausage. Mind out of the gutter.”
He paused, a strange intense look passing over his face.
Did she have cocoa on her lip or something? Absently, she wiped at her lips with the back of her hand. “What?”
His expression turned serious. “I want to kiss you.”
“You’ve kissed me, Tucker.”
A few times.
He leaned closer, so they shared the same air. “I want to see if it’s always peach lip gloss.”
Oh. Well. Hello. She was not expecting that.
But she was on vacation, and if this was a real do-what-she-wanted type event, she’d kiss Tucker. Not here, in the airport. They could kiss here, but that would hardly count. They needed a private kiss. Somewhere without her peach lip gloss.
She leaned into him, her lips brushing against his ear. “That’s the lip stuff my makeup artist uses. When I do my own makeup it’s just normal lip gloss.”
The scent of Tucker—soap and male skin and leather—along with the taste of chocolate created the Tucker-wants-to-kiss-me-squeebuzz going on in her head.
“The peach flavor can be distracting,” she continued, making her voice intentionally husky.
