He didn’t respond; he just took me in like he always did. As if he were cataloging every item I was or wasn’t wearing, along with every single mole and beauty mark. My heart didn’t slow down; instead, it picked up the pace at his gaze. I returned it, likeIalways did, a silent challenge. He had Molly, the really bad watchdog, cuddled in his arms against his uniform. The T-shirt and his cammies clung to his muscles, showcasing them. The expensive boots on his feet stated his profession in case his uniform, his build, and his attitude hadn’t already given it away.
When I’d studied his face, with its square jaw coated with dark stubble and eyes so dark a green they appeared black, it was his eyes that shot darts into me. Poisonous darts of liquid sex, making my body tremble with just a look. Damn him.
“You’re cooking,” he said, lips quirking at the corners. “I thought you never cooked.”
Had I told him that? Had he filed away all of my words the same way he seemed to catalog my looks? The majority of times Nash and I had been together, we’d been surrounded by others: Mac’s mess of Navy friends, my entire family, or Tristan’s family. There’d only been the one time we’d truly been alone when we’d accidentally run into each other at a bar in D.C. We’d talked about nothing specific over the round of beers I’d bought—much to his chagrin. I’d promised he could buy the second round. A second round we’d both known was dangerous with the fire licking between us like a flame curling its way up the first logs in the grate. It had been a good thing when I’d been called away with a crisis in Matherton-land.
Molly squirmed, and he put her down, patting her, his long hands running over her body, and I was suddenly jealous of a dog. Molly took off, probably to find her favorite toy to leave at his feet like she’d been leaving it at mine for two weeks.
“There’s cooking, and then there’scooking,” I said, emphasizing the words with finger quotes. I made my way to the fridge to put away the cheese, and it drew me closer to him, the spell of his body teasing mine just like every time I was anywhere near his orbit.
“What are you doing back?” I asked.
“Nowhere else to go at the moment,” he said. He hadn’t budged from his position leaned up against the wall, but when Molly dropped a rope toy at his feet, he bent, picked it up, and tossed it into the other room. Her nails scrabbled on the wood floors as she went to retrieve it.
I turned back to the counter, swallowed the rest of the whiskey I had in my glass, and then finished cleaning the counter and the cheese grater.
“What did the psychologist say?” I asked, and when I turned around, I caught a glimpse of an emotion I hadn’t seen before on his face. Hurt and loss mixed together. He didn’t respond.
I poured myself more whiskey and waved the bottle in his direction. He nodded, and I reached for another glass to pour one for him. I left it on the counter, taking mine to the kitchen table where I had a solitaire game laid out. Another task that kept my brain occupied in the quiet of the house.
He tossed the toy for Molly again before he picked up the drink and sat down across from me. “Have you heard from Tristan?” he asked.
I nodded, moving a red queen on top of the black king I’d just turned over.
“Why? Haven’t you?” I asked.
He ran a hand over the top of his hair, colliding with his sunglasses. He placed them on the table. “She isn’t returning my texts or calls.”
“So, you just thought showing up at her house was the way to go?”
“Don’t start. You’re as bad as Mac.” He glowered.
“What do you mean?”
“I promised him, and I damn well mean to keep that promise,” he said, his voice full of emotions you didn’t normally get from him. Molly seemed to take his tone to mean he was done playing, because she laid down at his feet. The dog was a traitor. Just like my body.
“Does she get a say in it?” I asked him.
He ignored my question and waved a hand. “What are you playing?”
“Um. Solitaire.”
“That’s not how you play Solitaire.” His lips quirked again.
“It’s Demon Solitaire,” I said with an eye roll, trying to hide the shake in my hands from being near him.
“Is this what you’ve been doing for the last two weeks? Cooking and playing Solitaire?” And this time, his lips turned up into a full smile, his white teeth in his tan face gleaming, eyes twinkling.
“No. Well, yes, but I’ve done other things, too.”
“Like what?” he challenged.
“Why do you care, Otter?”
That wiped his smile away, and my heart twisted. The timer went off, I pulled the enchiladas out, coated them with the cheese I’d grated, and put them back in the oven for a few more minutes. When I turned back around, he’d changed seats so he was in the chair next to mine, and he was moving my cards.
“Don’t screw up my game,” I told him.
