Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
Nova
He looks at me like I’m a bug under the microscope.
Or like how Steve stares up at me when I pull out the jar of peanut butter but don’t give him a special treat.
“It’s a honey rosemary Moscow mule,” I semi-repeat, handing it to him. “Not poisoned,” I add after he just stares at it suspiciously.
His eyes flick up, the golden flecks sparkling in the bright lights of the kitchen.
There’s the barest hint of pink on his cheeks from the cold, also maybe from the two shots of vodka he took in short succession.
Or maybe because he was furious at me.
Yelling at me.
I don’t care. I’m done caring. I’m biding my time, going to get along and then get the fuck out of here as soon as humanly possible.
Plus, if he drinks enough, he’ll pass out and I won’t have to deal with him.
Win-win.
And, frankly, I can use a little more alcohol.
Maybe then his cold eyes, his sharp words won’t sting quite so much.
Ugh. I turn back to the counter, grab my own glass, and take a big glug, remind myself of the mantra I have been repeating in my head for the last five minutes.
Ever since he caught my camera.
Ever since my heart gave a little flutter at the quick movements. Because he saved my life catching that—or at least my future employment options—
It doesn’t matter.
He doesn’t matter.
Everyone say it with me—
He. Doesn’t. Matter.
He shifts on his feet, passing the glass to his other hand as he lifts it to his nose, inhales deeply. “Rosemary in a drink?”
I shrug. “It’s good.” Smiling, I’m determined to hang on to my good mood as I add, “Something you would know if you tried it.”
He holds my stare as he slowly brings the glass to his lips, tips it up, throat working, Adam’s apple bobbing, the strong cords in his neck mimicking those in his forearms.
Strong.
Muscled.
Man.
My pussy throbs, remembering those thick fingers inside me, fucking me steadily to orgasm.
I lift my own glass, start chugging, barely tasting my careful mix of honey and lemon, ginger beer and vodka, the hint of earthiness from the rosemary. It would be better if I made a simple syrup with the honey and a few sprigs of the herb, letting that freshness resound brightly in the drink.
But…that whole needing-alcohol-in-my-system thing.
Only when a cube of ice hits my front teeth, the sprig of rosemary I put as garnish inside falling forward to hit my face, sending droplets of the concoction scattering along my cheek, do I realize I chugged so quickly that I’ve drank it all.
Perfect.
I have a reason to ignore him again.
And maybe this time I’ll make that simple syrup, if only to pass the time.
And to get away from those piercing hazel eyes.
I start rotating toward the sink—
“This is good.”
I lift my brows. “No kidding.” I move back to the counter, to the sink and the remaining half of a lemon, the rosemary and honey, the ginger beer bubbling in its can, the bottle with the pretty etching in its neck—conifers and the outline of a mountain—its label blue with silver writing declaring it Lake Vodka.
I thought that it was referring to Lake Tahoe, to the deep blue water, to the huge body of water hidden in the mountains.
But it’s referring to Lake.
As in, Lake’s brand.
And it bites just as hard as he does, the fire of the alcohol burning in my belly, crawling up my throat, making my head fuzzy and—
A hand on either side of me, gripping the edge of the counter, boxing me in, chest pressing to my back, his body close and burning nearly as hot as the fire from the alcohol inside me. “Why aren’t you pissed?” he asks.
It takes me a minute to process his question.
I blame the vodka.
I blame that hard, hot body boxing me in.
I shrug, attempting to feign indifference to his closeness. “You saved my camera.”
Silence. Then a hand coming to my shoulder. He shifts back—barely—as he turns me to face him. Which means my body brushes along the full length of his and—ho, mama—but that branch of his is…
Impressive.
He’s still an asshole.
Just also an impressive one.
“That’s not it,” he says, hand still on my arm, crouching down a little to meet my eyes.
I hold them, even though it’s hard, and shrug again. “What else could it be?”
Fingers tightening, body not moving away. “It’s something.”
I lift my chin. “Why do you care?”
His jaw flexes. “I don’t.”
Pointedly, I let my gaze slide to where he’s holding my arm. “Then why are you pushing this?”
Silence. For long enough that I’m certain he’s not going to answer me.
“Because you’re calm,” he says.
“Uhhh…” I frown. Is this a bad thing?
He shocks me by going on. “You should be hysterical. Throwing plates—or knives at my head, or something.”
I freeze. “I should be throwing knives at you?”
His face immediately closes down, hand dropping away. He grabs my glass and his own, filling them both with another shot. He tosses his back, fills it again, then tosses that back too.
Okaaay.
Maybe that passing out is going to commence sooner than planned.
“Lake,” I say.
He thrusts my glass in my direction. “Shot time.”
The apples of his cheeks are reddened from the alcohol.
“Someone threw knives at you?”
He reaches for the lemon. “Need some of this in that?”
I bat his hand away, snatch his glass back, setting it on the counter next to mine. “Maybe you should slow down.”
“Maybe I’ll—”
He reaches for my glass now, and I have to bat him away a second time. I take the shot, make a face, then snag the vodka, shoving it out of his way. “Did you like the drink I made you?”
His eyes hit mine, holding for a long moment. “Yeah,” he mutters, trying to reach past me for the bottle.
“I’ll make you another one.” With lots of lemon and ginger beer and not any vodka.
“I don’t need the fancy stuff with my alcohol,” he mutters, stretching out a hand for the bottle.
“Well, I do,” I say. “And I need some food with this.”
Not a lie.
But why am I stopping him from drinking more? If he finishes the bottle, he’ll pass out and leave me alone, and then I can just—
Who am I kidding?
If he finishes the bottle, he’ll probably get alcohol poisoning and then I’ll be stuck trying to keep him alive through Snowmageddon.
Food certainly.
Then passing out.
“I’ll cook something,” he says.
“Do you have enough faculties left to maneuver open flames?” I ask, eyes narrowed.
“Nova.”
His voice is so steady and serious that I find my gaze drawn back to his. “Yeah?”
“I’m not drunk.”
“So says the man who’s consumed half a bottle of vodka in the last ten minutes.”
His mouth curves up. “I’m two hundred and twenty pounds and hock vodka as part of my part-time gig. It’s going to take more than a couple of shots to get me drunk.”
I would believe that…
Except, he’s holding himself in that careful way I do when I’m feeling a little tipsy.
Like, if I’m super-duper focused, I can pull off a relatively decent approximation of sober.
So, I don’t think it’s a good idea for this man to be wielding knives and getting close to the open flames of that huge gas stove.
But it’s not like I can stop him.
It’s not like he gives two shits about my opinions—he’s made that exceptionally clear.
I nibble at my bottom lip, trying to think fast while ignoring the way his eyes heat when I do that.
It’s the vodka talking, that’s all.
Or his branch anyway.
Food. More alcohol.
Then figuring out what in the fuck-all I’m going to do with my life while a certain hockey player sleeps it off.
A certain hockey player who’s pulling out ingredients and walking toward the stove.
Shit.
“I—”
His head whips toward me and the question just flies off my tongue.
“Do you want to look at my pictures?”