Page 134 of Spicy Ever After
“Yes, but that’s not from the burn. That’s from slicing tomatoes.” I pull my hand away, shaking my head as I hop down from the step stool. “But don’t worry. I didn’t get any blood in the salad.”
“Salad?” He scans the counter, taking in all three of the cutting boards I could find. To say that the tomatoes, avocados, lettuce, and rotisserie chicken piled on top of them are sliced would be a bit of a stretch. But the food is definitely in pieces.
Of course, now that I’m looking at them, I don’t think I’d want to put any of those pieces in my mouth.
I doubt he will either.
“I… I was trying to make us a Cobb Salad.” The fact that I’ve failed doesn’t really need to be stated.
My nose stings and I swallow hard.
Do. Not. Cry.
But it’s a hard fight. If I can’t even make lunch, maybe Mom is right. What business do I have living on my own if I can’t feed myself. If I set off the smoke alarm just making a damn salad.
“I’ll clean up the mess,” I say, voice a little wobbly. “I’m sorry.”
All at once, Beck’s arms are around me, and I’m pressed to his sexy smelling chest. When I look up at him in shock, his mouth dips down to mine, and Beck kisses the hell out of me.
“You made me lunch,” he declares, a little breathlessly, a long moment later.
I’m glad his arms are around me because I feel a touch lightheaded. And I don’t think it’s all from the burnt bacon fumes.
“Technically, no.” I shake my head. “There’s no blue cheese, and I didn’t even think about salad dressing. Honestly, what’s the point of a salad without dressing? If I’d saved the bacon, that’d be?—”
He’s kissing me again.
Oh my gosh, he’s so good at it.
The pressure of his lips, firm and yet soft. The caress of his tongue seeking mine, both erotic but in control. The way his hand at the back of my neck and his arm banded around me choreograph perfectly so that my head angles back for him while my breasts squish deliciously against his chest…
He could post videos of his kissing technique on YouTube, and he’d never have to work again. He’d totally save this farm.
Which reminds me.
“I-I just wanted to help.”
Beck dips his nose against my neck—just below my ear—and inhales. Chills sprinkle down my spine like pixie dust.
“Just having you here helps,” he murmurs. “I fucking loved waking up with you this morning.” He kisses my neck, and I’m in danger of liquifying right here in his family kitchen. “Coming in and finding you still here is like getting a birthday present.”
I pull back, blinking at him. “You thought I’d leave?”
He shrugs. “There’s always Uber. You might’ve had stuff to do.”
I snort. “I’m missing church with the family, including Grandma Eloise. No way I could face that with a hangover.”
Beck laughs but cups my face in his hand. “How ya feeling?”
Now I shrug. “The BioLite helped a lot. Thank you. So did the coffee and the cinnamon rolls.” I glance at the unassembled Cobb salad on his counter—sans bacon, eggs, blue cheese, and dressing—and wrinkle my nose. “But my lunch efforts don’t look real appetizing.”
Eyes narrowed, Beck surveys the counter and presses his lips together. “I might have an idea. How do you feel about burritos?”
I perk up. “I’m listening.”
Beck releases me and wastes no time producing tortillas from the freezer and a can of refried beans and a jar of salsa from the pantry.
Ten minutes later, we take our burritos—stuffed with lettuce, tomato, avocado, rotisserie chicken, refried beans, and salsa—out to the front porch.
