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“Oh? Or what?” I tease him.
“I’ll call you Cassie.”
I laugh. “How did you know that would be a no-go?”
“Call it a hunch.”
I run my hand down my jaw. “It might be worth getting to call you Mar …”
I don’t even get the word out and his palm is on my face, covering my mouth. Without a second thought, I do what I would do to Winona if she covered my mouth with her hand. My tongue darts out and I lick his palm. I. Just. Licked. Marcus’s. Hand! Kill me now!
He pulls his hand back, his eyes go molten. He stares at me, and for one second, I think he’s going to bend in and kiss me. Obviously, he isn’t.
Do I know that I affect him? Yes. That theory has been tested and proven.
But being able to get a man worked up and having his heart are two different universes. And I know which one I firmly inhabit and which one is made of gas and ether.
Marcus clears his throat. “Okay. Well, I’ll be in the kitchen. You can clean up in the hall bath. Use any of the towels and washcloths in there. Don’t worry about getting sauce on them. I’ve got housekeepers who come twice a week. They work magic on stains.”
He looks at me one more time and then he walks out past me.
I run water in the sink, trying to stick my head under the faucet to get the sauce out of my hair, but he’s got one of those trendy, impractical sinks that’s more like a square pottery tray than a sink. I turn off the faucet and strip my clothes, stepping into the shower and washing all the remnants of vodka sauce down the drain. Then I towel off with the fluffiest towels I’ve ever used in my life.
Is it weird showering in Marcus Delaney’s guest bathroom? Yes. Extremely weird. But this whole night is bizarre—from his barefoot welcome to my pasta explosion to meeting his mom. So, I’ll just add taking a shower to the mix.
After I slip back into my skirt and Marcus’s jersey, which fits me like a dress, I carry my sweater and the apron out to the kitchen. Marcus is standing at the sink, rinsing a towel.
“I should have cleaned that up,” I say.
He turns. “It’s fine, Carter. And that jersey fits like a glove.”
“Right. A glove.” I push a strand of hair behind my ear.
The way he’s looking at me makes me glance down at myself.
He has an expression that I’d be tempted to call possessive if I didn’t know better. I’m projecting my feelings onto Marcus, I’m fully aware. Every fan knows how much a player likes to see anyone in their jersey.
“Ready to eat?” He asks, turning abruptly toward the stove.
“I am,” I say. “What can I do?”
“Nothing. It’s all ready.”
He holds his hand out and takes the towel, sweater and apron from me. Then he disappears into the laundry room off the kitchen.
When he comes back, he lifts the lid off the pan of sauce and spoons a serving of pasta onto a plate. Then he puts some salad next to it.
He hands me the plate and serves himself twice as much, along with two chicken breasts.
“Want to eat at the dining table?” He asks. “Or we could watch a movie?”
“You’re not afraid I’ll spill?”
“I like living on the edge,” he says, and he adds another wink.
He’s definitely more comfortable in his own home. His relaxation almost feels like flirtation.
“Okay. Movie it is,” I say, following him into a room I haven’t seen yet.
