He chuckled, a low rumble, deep from his chest, and I wondered what it would feel like if my hand was on his skin. Would I feel the movement all through my body?
“It’s just moving red to black and number to number. How hard can it be?”
“There’s a strategy to it,” I said, moving over but not sitting down in the chair I’d vacated. “See, you’ve totally screwed it up.”
“What?”
“I won’t be able to move that whole stack now because you’ve blocked it.”
“I feel like you are taking this way too seriously. Is this like your family and poker?” He smirked.
“No. Poker is way more serious.”
“So, if I were to do this, you wouldn’t care?” He brushed two of the piles so they mixed together, and I cringed.
He chuckled, and I was close enough that the energy coasted over my skin, littering it with goosebumps. I turned back to the oven, taking out the pan. The enchiladas didn’t look half bad for my first attempt. My body tingled a warning, but I still almost dropped the entire dish when I placed it on the counter, because Nash had moved so that he was right beside me.
“Jesus. Is your goal to give me a heart attack tonight? How did you move without me hearing it?” I asked.
He smiled. “Sniper training. Stealth is my mode of operation.”
I stared for a minute. I hadn’t known he was a sniper. SEAL, sure, but it took much more than brute force to be a sniper. The list of requirements was long, including a lot of brainpower. Nash having brains as well as looks was almost too much to consider. I moved away from him. Brains in men was always a turn-on for me. It was what had attracted me to Russell. He was smart. Ridiculously smart.
“How many people are you planning on feeding? Is there a party of twenty coming?” he asked.
“No, I’m freezing it for Tristan. You know, making sure she has something easy when she gets back.”
His smile was wiped away. “That’s pretty nice of you.”
“Whatever you’ve heard about me not being nice, it’s all lies. I can be very nice,” I said, grabbing plates from the cupboard. “I’m so nice I’ll even share some of this with you.”
“Are you sure you made enough, I mean?”
I threw the potholder at him, and he caught it deftly.
I dished us up, and he took the plates from my hand and put them on the table while I got out the silverware.
“This doesn’t look right,” he said as he sat down. I moved my plate from the chair next to his to the opposite side of the table. He didn’t object or make any snide remarks about my moving away again, but he watched me the whole time.
“What doesn’t look right?” I asked, frowning at the enchiladas. They looked perfect. I was pretty darn proud of my first attempt, considering my normal cooking disasters. I could barely make a grilled cheese without burning it.
“I mean, where’s the rest of it?” he asked.
“Rest of what?”
“Rice, beans, salad, chips. The rest of the meal.”
Shit. He was right. I hadn’t even thought about what should go with the enchiladas. They did look odd sitting on a plate all by themselves. I laughed. “Well, at least she’ll have part of a meal.”
His eyes went to my lips, and it took my laugh and my breath away. I got up and grabbed a bag of tortilla chips from the pantry, returning with them. “Here, you big baby.”
He scooped out a bunch, placing them on his plate before digging into the enchiladas. “Hey, these are pretty good,” he said after he’d swallowed his first bite. I’d watched every move. His fingers on the fork. The chew. The swallow. The Adam’s apple moving up and down. How could he possibly make something as mundane as eating look sexy?
I took a bite, and I felt him watching me just like I’d watched him. He was right, though; they were pretty good. I poured myself another glass of whiskey. He hadn’t touched his yet.
“How many of those have you had?” he asked.
“Don’t let taking care of Hannah go to your head. You aren’t a dad, and you most certainly aren’t mine.”
