Crush - Kelsie Rae Page 0,20
guarantees,” I quip before setting the vegetable––or is it a fruit?––onto the counter. Then I get to work.
“Just don’t get any blood in the serving bowl, and we’ll call it a win.” The playfulness in his voice, combined with the homey atmosphere, brings a smile to my face as I watch him open the oven to check on one of the side dishes. He’s cute like this––all homemaker-y.
Still, I can’t help but poke the bear a little more. “And what if the blood gets on my dress?”
Turning to me, his gaze slides up and down my little black dress that showcases my curves and hugs my body in all the right places. For now, anyway. Soon, there’ll be a baby bump that’ll knock my sex appeal down a few levels, but I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.
“That dress….” He stalks a little closer. My butt hits the counter behind me as his hands cage me in from both sides. “Is gorgeous on you.”
“Why, thank you,” I whisper, a blush creeping into my cheeks.
“But,” he adds with a wicked grin, “it won’t get you out of chopping duty. Let me get you an apron.”
Dropping my head back, I let my hair hang down my back and laugh as he retrieves the apron he’d mentioned from a drawer. When I see embroidered cherries, my smile softens, and my self-doubt creeps in.
Called it.
Keeping the fabric clutched in my hands, I ask, “Was this your wife’s?”
“No.” He stiffens, his eyes going hazy for an instant before returning to me. “It was an extra we kept for when her sister would come over to cook with her.”
“But you used to cook with her? You’re wife, I mean?” I murmur.
He nods, that same somber intensity oozing from his pores. “I did.” Then he cuts the distance between us a second time, takes the apron from my grasp, and slips it over my head.
“Cherries suit you,” he murmurs. “They make your freckles pop.”
I blush at the compliment, remembering our texting conversation the night before, and how he’d mentioned the same thing whenever I got embarrassed. And for the first time in my life, I don’t hate my freckles. I kind of love them.
His mouth is barely a couple of inches away from mine, begging me to raise onto my tiptoes to close the distance. My mouth waters as his eyes drop down to my lips, hinting that he might be thinking the same thing.
Then a bell dings on the oven, and he pulls away. “Chop, chop.”
Just like that, the cat-and-mouse game continues, and the vulnerable man I’ve only seen glimpses of disappears into thin air.
“So…do you like it?” Ben watches me chew the small piece of perfectly cooked medium-rare steak in my mouth, his gaze zeroing in on my closed lips.
After swallowing, I admit, “This is quite possibly the best steak I’ve ever tasted.”
“And that is quite possibly the nicest thing anyone has ever said about my cooking.”
My mouth stretches into a smile before I cover it with the lip of my wine glass that’s filled with cranberry juice.
“What’s so funny?” he inquires, slicing off a bite of steak from his plate.
“Just the fact that you were thoughtful enough to buy me cranberry juice instead of wine. Especially since it’s cranberry juice. Which is my absolute favorite, by the way. Not gonna lie, I was a little worried about how I was going to explain my current”––I motion to my stomach––“state to a booty call.”
“Booty call? Is that all I am to you?”
His mock outrage pulls a light laugh out of me. “I’m sorry, would you call what we’re doing something else?”
“Well…no, but you make it sound so dirty.” His shiver only adds to the insanity of this entire conversation.
“Maybe I like it dirty,” I jest.
“Touché.” Raising his glass, he clinks it against my own. “To cranberry juice, getting down and dirty, and making the man in the relationship feel like a well-priced gigolo.”
Laughing even harder, I lift my glass. “I’ll drink to that.” Then I take a sip of the tart liquid and lick my lips. “Speaking of getting down and dirty, I do feel like I should probably address the elephant in the room.”
“And what elephant is that?”
Here we go.
Slicing off another bite of delicious meat, I take a bite and savor the peppery flavor before explaining, “When I signed up to be a surrogate, they made it very clear that….” I take a sip of my drink––again––and pray it’ll have the