8. Hallie
HALLIE
“ W hat is that?” Sawyer asks, his expression somewhere between horrified and disbelieving as he looks at the things laid out on the counter.
“My lunch.”
“There’s no way.” His dark blue eyes bounce from my food to me and back again before he shakes his head. “That’s not food.”
“Of course it is.” My tone is haughty because premade peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are the best. “And,” I add with a flourish of my hand, “I can freeze an extra box and even if I throw them in my lunchbox frozen, they’re still ready to eat during my shift.”
“You know how I feel about your penchant for the frozen food aisle.”
“So you admit, it is food.”
“I’ve done no such thing.”
“You can’t tell me what to do. And you still haven’t given the kitten a name.”
We’d resorted to calling our newest roommate Kitty but only because Sawyer had refused to give it any serious thought.
“We’re not doin’ this right now,” he growls, his accent sending a delicious zing of arousal between my legs.
“She needs a name.”
“Winnie.”
“Winnie?”
“Yes, I have bees, bears like honey, so it fits.”
“That’s adorable.”
“So glad you think so, and seriously, how have you survived this long?” The last part is delivered with a wry grin before he swipes the box of premade goodness off the counter. Before I even know what’s happening, he flips open the garbage can lid and tosses the whole damn thing inside.
“Sawyer!” I gasp, my foot stomping as my hands fist at my sides.
“You’re not eating like a fourth grader.” Crossing his arms over his chest, he grins. “You made me name the cat, so now this is your punishment.”
I ignore the way every nerve ending in my body lights up at the idea of being punished by Sawyer Kade because I have a feeling I’d love every second.
Every single one.
Instead of lust I choose indignation. “I’ve survived this long,” I tell him and even though I’m mad as hell, I can’t help the way my eyes lock on the cotton stretching across his chest, his biceps flexing as he reaches for the handle of the fridge.
“Humor me,” he deadpans, closing the door and placing a covered glass dish in front of me. Mouth hanging open, I watch as he grabs a fork from the drawer and places it on top.
“What’s this?”
“Leftovers.”
“Leftovers,” I repeat before squinting at him. “But what will you eat?”
“I did a meal prep for the week when I stocked Coastal Eats.”
“I’ve heard my mom talk about it, but I don’t know what that is.”
“Essentially, it’s high-end premade meals for locals and tourists. We market a couple of meals each week, and then we make and deliver the orders. Most people leave a cooler outside their houses, and we leave it in there, so no one is forced to wait around for the delivery.”
“Wow, that’s interesting. I guess I never knew that was a thing.”
“A lot of different areas do it, and we capitalized on the need for it here.”
“And you make all the food?” He nods like it’s no big deal, but I’m absolutely in awe of him right now.
“Usually, but we have someone that helps out with the big orders and then a couple of drivers. Walker runs the business side with all the inspections and licensing. We’ve been up and running for almost three years and so far, our system is working.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks. I hated not having creative license working at a restaurant owned by someone else. If things keep growing, we’ll be able to hire on more employees, and after that, the possibilities are endless.”
“So busy and yet you’re over here fussing over me,” I tease, making him narrow his eyes.
“Yeah, well, I assumed that because you’re a functioning adult that is routinely in charge of taking care of and saving others, that you’d be able to feed yourself more than sour candy and stale vending machine snacks.” He shrugs. “But I guess not.”
“I cannot believe you just said that,” I state, mostly offended but not immune to the hotness pouring off him right now.
“I think what you meant to say is thank you .”
“But this is…”—I hold up the container that looks like chicken, rice, and some kind of vegetable—“healthy.”
“The horror.”
“It is.” My tone is a full-fledged whine, and I can’t even be embarrassed because how am I supposed to maintain this when I leave? I’ll have to go back to subpar reheated dinners and vending machine snacks.
I ignore the pang in my heart when I think about leaving.
Because that’s ridiculous. I love my job and I love traveling. It’s the perfect setup for me.
“Don’t worry,” he says, bringing me back to the present. “I made sure to double everything so you won’t have to think about it—just grab and go.”
“But,”—I give him my best puppy dog eyes—“where are the snacks?”
“Maybe you’ll think twice before bringing another stray animal home.” His lips twitch and I want to kiss that smug look right off his stupidly handsome face.
“Fine, but on my days off, I get to pick what we have.”
“Sure.”
“Like pizza.”
“Homemade.”
“And mac and cheese and pulled pork and?—”
“Be a good girl and I’ll make whatever you want.”
I open my mouth but there are no words because Sawyer just told me to be a good girl and it doesn’t matter what he meant. All I heard was the growled command in that Southern drawl I can’t get enough of.
And now my panties are soaked.
And he’s looking at me like he knows what he said, but before I can even respond, my phone buzzes in my pocket, pulling me back to reality.
Work.
What a bitch.