17. Jeremy #2
Willow laughs, and the clear, melodious sound gives me an instant hard on. I’m so far out of my depth here, but one glance at her smile strips away my embarrassment. I turn back to the stove and fish a pan out from a drawer. “Um, okay if I cook sausages here, or do I need to go outside somewhere?”
Getting fat spots all over her pristine kitchen would mess it up.
“Here’s fine.” She leans her elbows on the table. “Can I be honest with you?”
“Please.”
“I’m nervous as fuck. It’s been years since I had a heat, and I feel like I’ve forgotten how to do any of this. What it feels like . . . all a blur. Not a very happy one either.”
She gazes out the distance, her mind far away on something unpleasant.
“Not like riding a bike?” I ask, ripping open the sausages.
She snorts and her eyes twinkle as her gaze flicks back to me. “Are you calling yourself a bike?”
Beautiful and witty.
I reach across the bench and touch the back of her hand. “You can ride my bike any time you like, gorgeous.”
Her pale cheeks turn a pretty pink and she crosses her legs under the bench. I’m going out on a limb here, but guessing it’s been some time since anyone flirted with her. But why, I cannot fathom. Men would line up down the street to date her.
Maybe that’s the problem.
I pull back and get to work on lunch. Once the sausages sizzle in the pan with a dash of oil, I wash the vegetables and use a peeler to zip off long strips of the carrot and cucumber, then shred the lettuce.
“Since we’re being honest,” I say while I work. “The truth is, I’m not truly good at any one thing. I just picked up a bunch of weird skills doing whatever work I found.” I hold up long strips of carrot. “What you’re about to consume came from a chef at a bar I worked at, once upon a time.”
“Sounds fancy.”
I level her with an amused look. “Sounds more like munchies when you’re desperate at 2am and need to balance the blood alcohol content.”
She grins, and I find myself drunk on her expressions. I want to savor each one, committing the flavor to memory; the smiles, the chuckles, the serious moment. As I set out the pita bread wraps from the second shelf, I steal glances at her like tiny appetizers to tide me over.
She doesn’t have hummus, but I find a can of chickpeas in the walk-in food store, which, amazingly, also has a second small kitchenette.
Butler’s pantry, I think people call this set up.
Adding some garlic, cayenne pepper, olive oil and lemon, I blend it up, following a mental process I’ve seen Mom make hundreds of times.
“You don’t even have to look up a recipe?” Willow muses. Her brows rise, like she’s impressed.
“My Dad loves hummus. Mom makes a fresh batch for him like every second day.” I pass her a plate with a tablespoon of the mix and a few pieces of ripped up pita. “What do you think?”
Her pink tongue darts out. “It’s good,” she says, grabbing another piece of bread.
A thrill runs through my belly. I could walk around the bench, take her lovely cheeks in my hands and press my mouth to hers. Curl my tongue over hers, and suck gently—
“Jeremy?” Willow half rises, craning her neck. “Are the sausages burning?”
Shit. I whip around and turn the lengths over to cook evenly. One side’s a bit dark, but not ruined.
“Thanks. I was lost in thought.”
“Oh? About what?”
I meet her gaze. “About how beautiful you are, and how grateful I am that you invited me over.”
Her lashes flutter as she processes. “Geez, they really teach you how to lay on the charm, don’t they?”
I laugh and throw my right hand up. “I swear to God, the clinic taught me no such thing. I meant every word.”
Her chest rises with a puff. “Flatterer.”
“Guilty,” I say with a grin. “Want to lick the spatula?” I offer it to her, thick with hummus.
She takes it and wipes the tip off with her bread. Of course my mind dives straight for the gutter and other things we’ll be wiping soon enough, but the last thing we should do is rush. Besides, this is nice, getting to know each other like this.
Five minutes later, the sausages are done and I cut them into long strips.
Willow feeds the very well-mannered Mr Shares a piece of the meat while I assemble the lengths in the pita next to the salad ingredients.
A handful of cheese goes on top, and then I roll them up, using spare lengths of cucumber to wrap around the outside, forming what looks like a bow.
“Ta-da!” I spin the plate around and slide it across the bench to her.
“And you think that’s not fancy?” she asks, brows arching.
I chuckle and perch on the bar stool next to her.
“You left out the hummus,” she says, pointing to the ceramic bowl piled with pale gold goodness.
“Nope. You dip the end of your wrap in it.” I draw the food across the bench. “Oh, I only made one bowl. Do you mind double dipping?”
She looks at me as if to ask am I serious. Well, I suppose I’m literally employed to be double dipping in her body.
I snort and slide the hummus her way. “Ladies first.”
Willow picks up her wrap, hands small around the big pita roll. Lovely hands, capped with manicured nails in a pale pink shade.
“Here goes,” she says, dipping one end in the sauce before nibbling daintily at the lot. “Oh, my goodness. That’s amazing!”
“Right?” I laugh and tackle my own food. “And because it’s all made of long strips, the insides don’t fall out easily.” Right as I say it, a piece of my sausage slithers free and plops into the hummus. “Usually,” I mutter, fishing the rebel out.
Willow snorts and then laughs. Suddenly she chokes, dropping her food onto her plate and gasping around her laughter.
“Oh, shit. You okay?” I ask.
What if she can’t breathe? I’ll need to call 911, and—what are my emergency protocol steps?
“Yes,” she gasps, spluttering. “That was perfect. Couldn’t have been timed better.”
When she coughs again, I pat her back. Willow rasps and chuckles, massaging her clavicle. A speck of cheese sits on her lip, and I lean in and run my thumb over her skin to peel it away.
Her brilliant blue eyes widen, and her pupils dilate, full of omega delight. An eager quiver runs through my body.
“Willow,” I murmur, leaning closer. Still stroking her lip.
“Jeremy?” she whispers.
“May I kiss you?”
A pulse jumps in her delicate throat. So lovely, so vulnerable. Silent, she nods, brushing her silky skin against my palm.
I lean in, and her jasmine scent explodes.