Page 52 of Shark’s Pride

“Sebastian.”

“What?”

“Focus on your colors.”

“No.”

“Attitude!” But my teasing tone and arching eyebrow only made him slide out a sexy smirk. “Follow me, Padawan.” I made another attempt at prying his hand off my hip and using the momentum to tug him to his feet. “I’ll show you all the choices.”

“Padawan?” He choked on the word but acquiesced to trailing behind me, heating my back with his gaze. I’d worn a top that only connected at the neck with a bow. The rest of the fabric wafted in the breeze as I walked, billowing out from my body in alluring ways. I’d paired the loose top with skinny jeans that left nothing to the imagination on the bottom. The denim hugged my ass and hips before tapering to my ankles, where I finished with an open-toe ankle boot. Since my hair was in desperate need of a trim, it was piled high on my head in a messy bun, which also showed off the blouse’s bow detail.

The paint station girl was absent for a second, doing refills for a kids’ birthday party, so we had the corner to ourselves. I picked up the kiln-fired sample tile and turned to Sebastian with it, already explaining how the colors would be darker when our pottery was finished, but the words drizzled to a halt in my throat. He was all but radiating with pure lust, turning every thought in my head to dust.

“I can’t think straight when you look at me like that.” My voice came out in a needy, hoarse moan.

“Goddamn, you smell good,” he growled in the pit of my ear, pressing fully against me. “What are you wearing?”

“H-Hey,” I husked, trying to take a step back. But he held me tight with a hand at the small of my back.

“Easy there, pal. This is a family establishment.”

“That’s not my concern at the moment.” I felt his cheeks tighten with his knowing grin.

“Bas…” And I was back to barely getting one syllable out. The effect he had on my body was unnerving. “Focus.”

I grabbed a few different pinks and reds, thinking I would try to paint peonies on my container. Usually my ideas were bigger than my artistic ability and I ended up with a simpler design than imagined, but I always liked the process of trying. Bas grabbed a few paints—I wasn’t sure if he even looked—before we went back to our table.

I reached and scooped a pencil out of the brush caddy. “I’ll try to sketch this out first. Or maybe I’ll see if they have a stencil.” I nodded, thinking that might be a better option. “Thank God my kitchen isn’t Pokémon themed.”

I’d barely started to sort out my supplies when Bas swiveled that quietly incisive gaze back on me. “Your kitchen,” he echoed, tilting his head. “A pretty important place?”

I smiled softly. “Well, yes. Of course.”

“When did you discover your passion for cooking?”

My smiled wobbled. But how could I refuse him a response? Especially right now, after he’d pinned me with his full attention.

“I used to help my mom cook dinner for the family on Sundays. I mean, I did it on other days of the week too, but Sundays were special. My grandparents would come over, and sometimes my aunts and uncles and cousins if they weren’t busy. As we got older and everyone had sports and school commitments, it got harder for everyone to come together.”

I paused, wondering if it would be hard for him to listen to stories like these.

“What was that like?”

“What do you mean?”

I hated asking, because there was genuine intrigue in his voice. His face was filled with the same. But I couldn’t help it. I was equally as curious. Did he want menu details? Or know how we had to mix up the seating arrangements? Or how my mom never let me miss Sunday dinner, even if Monday was a holiday and I could have longer sleepovers with my friends if I skipped?

Fortunately, he didn’t leave me to fill in those weird blanks. “I don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “I mean, having that many people around. All in your house at one time.”

A small laugh spurted out. “Loud.”

Clearly he was mystified by the concept. “Did everyone get along?”

“Well, sure.” I emulated his shrug. “I mean, for the most part. Mostly they’re happy memories,” I admitted. “Sometimes, my mom and her brother argued—especially if my uncle was drinking. And we’re Irish, so let’s be honest. There was beer and whiskey at every occasion.”

In typical Bas fashion, he didn’t skip a beat before plunging into the task in front of him. I watched as he painted his plate with steady, even strokes, marveling at how he approached everything—even something as unfamiliar as painting pottery—with such confidence.

And why did that infuriate me and arouse me at the same time?