Chapter 1 #2
He sets a beer down and stretches out a hand. “Sutton. Full-time idiot brother and Pretty Boy. Part-time Housewives of Honeycomb Ranch enthusiast.”
I reach out and shake it, instantly feeling a tingle of electricity from his warm, firm grip and callused hands.
My eyes drift down and I see just how worn they are—tiny nicks and scars litter the backs of his knuckles.
He most definitely works with his hands.
Or maybe his brother does in fact actually bite him.
Either way, the idea of a man with those hands watching Housewives makes me chuckle.
“Kelsey. Local spewer of verbal diarrhea and full-time HHR enthusiast.”
A warm laugh rumbles up his chest and he continues to smile at me. I can’t bring myself to look away, shaking his hand for far too long because I’m not great in social situations like this. “Mind if I sit here? Figured I’d let whatever’s going on over there play out for a minute.”
I finally let go of his hand and gesture to the empty barstool.
What’s the worst that could happen letting him sit there? He’s good eye candy and should ward off any annoying guys tonight.
Looking back to the corner, Monica seems to be enjoying her conversation with his brother too. What kind of friend would I be if I put a damper on her night?
I hear the barstool creak under his weight when he sits. Judging by his height, those chorded forearms, and how he fills out that shirt, I’m willing to bet he’s built like a slab of granite.
“Thanks.” He tips his beer toward my friend and his brother. “I’m imagining this could be fun to watch.”
I take another sip of my beer, swirling it around my mouth before swallowing. “Oh, she’s totally going to eat him alive. He’s the first piece of fresh meat in here worth a damn in weeks, and she’s off work tomorrow.”
He snorts a laugh. “So, you’re a local girl. Noted.”
I shoot him a sidelong glare. “You have a problem with that?”
Those baby blue eyes soften. “No. Not at all. I’m from a little town even smaller than this one. Always loved them. I’m glad to finally be moving back to one.”
Somehow that surprises me. I just assumed they’d be from some big city.
I immediately pegged them as tourists or maybe some vacation home owners—just in town for a bit.
This is one of the reasons I have a hard time making meaningful relationships or finding people that I can truly trust. Outside of Monica, most of the people that I’ve ever been close to haven’t stuck around.
It’s hard to get invested in anyone—romantically or otherwise—because the odds are they won’t be around here for long.
My lips pull up into the slightest hint of a smile at that realization.
“You’re moving here… to Jackson?”
I ask him mid swig of his beer, catching him off guard. He nods, but some of his beer must go down wrong. He coughs, spilling it all over himself.
“Oh shit, I’m sorry.”
I lean over the bar and grab a rag. On instinct, I pat down his front trying to dab it up. Through his beer soaked shirt, I feel the subtle lines of his firm muscular chest and stomach. OK. He’s definitely built like granite.
“Don’t worry about it. Hardly the first time I’ve spilled something on myself.” He grabs my wrist, stopping me from feeling him up anymore.
”Pretty but clumsy. Got it.” I smile nervously and he lets out a short laugh.
“You’re really hung up on the pretty thing.”
I feel the corners of my mouth tug up into a smile, and when I look into his eyes I notice they’re the most beautiful shade of sky blue I have ever seen.
His eyes drop to my parted lips and I hear him swallow.
I feel the pads of his worn fingertips gently rub my wrist, only adding to the unexpectedly charged air between us.
A moment that feels like forever passes while I admire his large hands and the way his thumb strokes mine.
“You’re really into food.”
He looks up at me, squinting in confusion at another one of my verbal miscues.
I point at his exposed forearm with my free hand. “The tattoos. That’s an interesting combination of food. Is that supposed to be a Girl Dinner menu?”
He nods. “Oh, yeah. Those. Just souvenirs from places I’ve worked.”
I look down at his arm again noting that my wrist is still fully engulfed in his grip, which I’m oddly in no rush to change. Looking at all the tattoos again, it almost looks like a carefully thought out menu.
“Service industry?”
He nods again, this time his smile beams with pride. He gestures back to his brother. Looking across the bar, I’m not surprised to see Monica on his lap, his head tucked over her shoulder, while she holds up her phone.
“He owns a couple restaurants around the country. I’ve worked at both of them, but we’re opening another here. I’ll be the Head Chef.”
I raise my brows in surprise. “Wait, Captain Control over there is a chef too?”
He barks out a laugh—a boyish carefree laugh—letting go of my wrist to clutch his stomach. I instantly feel the absence of his warm touch.
“Captain Control.” He sighs and shakes his head. “I like it. That describes him to a T. He’d probably put that on a plaque right next to his two stars. Actually, hang on…” He digs into his pocket and my brain takes a few seconds to process what he just said.
“Stars? As in Michelin stars, plural? You guys have multiple stars?”
“Technically, they go to the restaurants, not the chefs. That said, the first restaurant—the one he runs in Denver—is the one with stars.” He points a finger gun at his brother. “I have yet to run a restaurant that has earned one, but that’s my dream.”
I can tell by the look in his eyes that he means it, but before I fall under the spell of those dreamy blue eyes, he pulls out his phone and tilts it toward me.
There it is. I knew the good guy routine had to be an act. This guy’s going to ask me for my number.
“Check this out.” He holds his phone out to me.
I look down, seeing that his camera roll is open.
“This better not be a dick pic.”
He snorts a laugh. “I promise it’s not. Just scroll.”
I tug the phone out of his fingers, still eyeing him skeptically. He makes a little shooing gesture and I roll my eyes before looking at the phone. The second I do, my jaw drops.
Instead of poorly lit phallic pictures, there are endless images of beautiful plates of food.
Perfectly positioned pieces of meat, sauces that look like flawless pools, charred vegetables, and colorful flowers accenting them. Each one looks like a piece of art, so beautiful I don’t even know if I would eat these if they were served to me.
I look back at him to find his gaze fixed on me. Instead of a smug grin like I would expect, he’s wearing a proud, boyish smile. He reaches over and flicks the screen, scrolling to another picture.
“That one’s my favorite. Black raspberry pie with homemade black raspberry gelato.”
I look back at the screen and see that it’s a neatly cut slice of pie, the berry filling oozing out so dark it’s nearly black. It’s plated on a dark gray ceramic dish, and on top of the pie is a small black scoop of gelato, so smooth it almost looks fake.
Holy crap. I wasn’t hungry a minute ago, but I’m pretty sure I just moaned at the thought of eating that.
“That looks amazing.”
He plucks the phone out of my hand and tucks it back into his pocket.
“Thanks. I’d love to make it for you sometime.”
I give him a questioning look. “Are you asking me on a date?”
He smirks and shakes his head. “I don’t think pretty boys like me are your type. And I meant at the restaurant, when it opens. It’ll be on the menu.”
Oh. My shoulders slump just the tiniest amount because for some inexplicable reason, I liked the idea of him making a meal just for me. That doesn’t stop me from making a mental note that I want to try everything on the menu at this restaurant if he’s the one cooking it.