Chapter 9
NINE
QUINN
I have to dig through what seems like an entire produce section to locate the beer in August’s fridge.
“Do you have a garden in your backyard or something? What’s with all these veggies?” I stand up, glass bottle clutched in each hand, trying to envision what my refrigerator looks like. Last I remember, most of the space is full of takeout tacos and Chinese.
You’d think a Fire Elemental would be better at cooking things.
August chuckles and taps a drawer at his side. When I slide it open, the bottle opener is sitting right on top. We’re not done with our first date, and already, I feel like we’ve started to develop a groove.
“In Alaska, fresh produce is expensive as hell. Plus, half the time you show up at the store, they’ve sold out of whatever you’re looking for.
” He shrugs. “I have a hard time reining myself in here. It’s like a gold mine of bell peppers.
The first time I went shopping, everyone thought I was a country bumpkin because I kept exclaiming about the prices.
Walking out of the store, I felt like I had to make a quick getaway before someone tripled my grocery bill. ”
I giggle at the thought of August sprinting to his car, bags of kale and tomatoes swinging from his arms. He throws a quick grin over his shoulder while his large hands deftly dice an onion.
Growing up in Phoenix, I’ve never thought much about our unending supply of cheap produce. Water? Now that’s something that’s never far from my mind. Guess people tend to focus more on what they’re lacking than on what they have.
“What else is different about Alaska? Other than the cold, obviously.” I toss out the question as I wander into the living area of August’s house. The place has an open floor plan, so we can still speak easily as I explore.
“Wildlife is bigger up north. Wasn’t out of the ordinary to have a moose wander into our backyard. Sometimes a bear.”
“Holy shit. Like a grizzly bear?” I plop down on his couch, enjoying how the overstuffed cushions attempt to swallow me in their comforting embrace.
“More often a black bear. But I did see grizzlies a couple of times. Kept my distance and lived to tell the tale.”
“What else?” I keep my beer from spilling as I pull myself up from the couch.
“I’m sure you’ve heard about the darkness in the winter. Some people get used to it, but I’ve got to say, I’m loving this Phoenix sun.”
I smirk across the room. “And I’m sure that has nothing to do with how our intense heat helps sell ice cream by the gallons.”
August glances my way again, wearing a satisfied smile, and my heart beats quicker in response. Damn, the man should come with a safety warning. The way he makes my powers pulse feels like a five-alarm fire.
But I’m having too much fun learning about him to take the hint.
“I never considered opening my own shop up there.”
“Alaskans don’t like ice cream?” The idea of anyone not wanting the glorious frozen desserts August is able to craft baffles me.
I watch the back of his head shake as he focuses on the large pot he’s been adding ingredients to for the last half hour.
A savory scent drifts from the stovetop.
I’m not sure if it’s the smell or the way his back muscles roll and shift whenever he reaches for the next item that has my mouth watering.
“Plenty do. My mom runs her own bakery up there, and when I started making ice cream, she sold it out of her shop.” August washes his hands before wiping them on a towel and turning to face me.
He leans back on the counter and sips his beer, those iceberg-blue eyes watching as I pull a cookbook off a shelf to flip through the well-worn pages.
“But you moved here.” I’m not sure whether to form the statement as a question.
He told me why he moved here—his cousin. But who chooses cousins over parents? My mom and dad live a couple of hours away, over in Tucson, and I can’t imagine settling anywhere farther from them.
August finger-combs his hair, and I trace the muscular curve of his arm out of the corner of my eye.
“Alaska never felt like my place. Something was pulling me south. I figured the best destination was to go where there was more family.”
“Not a fan of the cold?” I ask, still trying to figure out how this gorgeous Viking of a man ended up in the middle of the desert.
He smirks, as if listening to an inside joke. “The cold is familiar. I’m looking for something different.”
We hold gazes then, only the empty space of a room separating us. A stronger pulse of heat courses through my veins. Hoping some more alcohol will help my powers chill the fuck out, I take a swig of my beer. Unfortunately, the liquid has gone warm, unable to withstand the hot clutch of my hand.
I stifle a grimace and slide the book back into its spot.
“Come taste this,” August says. “Need to know if it’s any good.”
I push away my worries and saunter over to the kitchen, where August has resumed stirring the soup. I’m not particularly short, but his built figure still seems to loom over me. With one hand on the granite, I hoist myself up to sit on the counter.
August’s mouth curves slightly, just a twitch at the corner.
He dips a spoon in the concoction and then cups his hand underneath, intending to catch any drips as he holds the silverware to my lips.
All my concentration goes to tasting the soup because I know, the minute I lock eyes with him again, I’ll choke on the hot liquid.
If I was worried that ice cream was the only delicious food item August could create, all doubts drift away the moment his soup passes my lips. Spicy and sweet and creamy with bits of tender, shredded chicken incorporated into that savory mixture.
All my willpower is temporarily occupied by not moaning out loud. After I get myself under control, I attempt a quizzical expression. “Hmm. It’s good. But I feel like it’s missing something.”
The concerned wrinkle in his brow is so adorable that I almost break.
“Is it the consistency? Too watery?” He pulls out a clean spoon and tastes the soup himself.
I shake my head, pinching my lips between my teeth to keep from smiling.
“Is it bland? Does it need more salt?” He sniffs at the brew, as if his nose will provide all the answers.
What’s funny is, if August knew me a bit better, he would never bother asking my opinion on how to improve a recipe. My highest culinary achievement is fashioning a grilled cheese without burning the bread to shit.
“That’s not it …” I trail off, as if considering the imaginary problem.
“How about the spice? Did it come on too strong? Or not enough? I have extra chipotles.” August goes to reach for a shriveled red pepper on the cutting board.
I clap my hands, giving up on the game before he ruins perfection.
“No! I’ve got it. To make this soup perfect, it just needs”—I grip the edge of the counter to keep my balance as I lean over and steal a quick kiss from his decadently soft lips—“a little sugar.” I retreat from his stunned face with a wicked smile of my own.
As August remains still, no immediate reaction other than shock, a twinge of uncertainty pinches in my chest.
Did I read this entire situation wrong? Most of the time, I avoid flirting and sexy glances in order to cut down on errant fires. Maybe what I thought was the sign of an interested man was really a guy thinking, This is a cool chick that I want to be platonic friends with.
Ready to laugh off my advance, using the excuse that I’m one of those lucky women who can get drunk on half a beer, I let out a surprised squeak instead when August steps in between my knees.
Both of his cool hands slide around to my butt and pull me forward until our chests are practically welded together, and his belt buckle presses delightfully against my center.
“I think it needs a hell of a lot more sugar than that.” August’s voice caresses my hot skin, smoother than ice.
All I can manage is a nod. He leans forward, his stare focused on my mouth, and I wonder if he fantasizes about my lips the same way I do about his. Then all ability to wonder floats away as he makes contact.
The taste and scent of him meld together, a heady mixture of warm vanilla and sweet molasses soaked in melted butter. I moan, needing to consume him.
My hands release the counter, allowing my arms to twine around his neck and pull him closer. My legs mimic the movement, hooking around his hips in a wanton demand. All the while, I feast on his delicious mouth.
August groans, deep in his chest, the sound quaking into my bones.
His heavy hands push up under my shirt, spreading over my lower back.
The rasp of his skin on mine is a strange combination of relief and torture.
Every cell in my body grows overly sensitive as the fire at my core thrums through me, but his caress soothes the ache like aloe on a sunburn.
The twist and tangle of sensations muddles my mind, and for a moment, I forget to breathe.
When my lungs burn with protest, I gasp, and August traces his tongue along the inside of my bottom lip.
His taste refreshes me while also instilling a rabid craving that hooks my fingers into claws, clutching him tighter.
His hands match the motion, digging into the skin on my back, sending painful pleasure ricocheting down my spine. My hips rock into his, the press of his buckle finding just the right spot.
My sight blurs in and out of focus, all of my other senses overwhelming my ability to see. Stars burst in the corners of my eyes.
No, not stars.
Flames.
The kitchen is filling with fire.