then she huffed out a breath. “Oh my God, you’re terrible.” She sounded amused, though, as she nudged me with her shoulder.
I nudged her back; it was either that or haul her onto my lap. “That’s no secret, honeybee.”
“Honeybee?” she repeated, a warning in her voice.
I bit back a grin. “If I’m going to be a honey pie, makes sense you’d be the bee.”
The sweep of her brows lowered ominously. “Why? Because I’m after your honey?” She scoffed long and loud, and I had to laugh. If anyone was after honey here, it was me.
“Bees make honey, Em.” I nudged her again, hard enough to rock her and make her squeak with a laugh. “And you seem intent upon making me sweet.”
CHAPTER TEN
Emma
Make Lucian Osmond sweet? I suspected he always was; he simply didn’t know it.
I was in a ridiculously good mood on the drive back to Rosemont. Though prone to long periods of silence, and sometimes gruff, Lucian was good company. I didn’t mind the silences; I tended to daydream and get caught up in my own worlds anyway. And the gruffness, the grumbles, and the huffs were kind of adorable. Not that I’d tell him that. Or maybe I should; he’d probably end up doing it more.
Thing was, I didn’t know what was going on between us. I liked him. Lord knew I wanted him. And if he didn’t know that, at the very least, he knew I found him attractive. I wasn’t completely oblivious. I’d seen him looking as well. Never leering or too lingering. But he seemed to like what he saw as well.
When he let his guard down, he flirted. But it was clear he resisted it. Which was smart. Both of our professional lives were up in the air, he was clearly working through a lot of stress, and I . . . technically, I’d just broken up with my live-in boyfriend. Who I hadn’t thought of for days. Greg was just one in a line of disappointments. Either I had completely crap taste or crap judgment. Regardless, it was for the best to stay clear of relationships for a while. Focus on becoming a better me and all that, and stick to simple friendship with Lucian.
Then I caught a glimpse of his big body in the driver’s seat next to me, a ratty Captain America T-shirt stretched tight across his wide shoulders but hanging loose over his flat belly. He wore cargo shorts that just reached his knees.
Were men’s knees supposed to be sexy? Their calves? One sight of Lucian’s bony knee, delineated muscled thigh, and hard calf, lightly dusted with dark curling hair, made me want to reach out and stroke his leg, creep my hand under those shorts to cup what I knew would be firm and meaty and . . . damn.
Keeping my hands to myself and my mind out of his pants was going to be difficult. Which was weird; I loved men and sex, but I’d never been preoccupied by either. Until him.
I put down the window as we turned onto Rosemont’s drive. “I’m starving. What do you think they’ll have for lunch?”
“I don’t know. I was going to make myself a sandwich.” Lucian glanced over, a glint in his pale-jade eyes. “You’re wrinkling your nose. Disrespecting the humble sandwich, Em? Or have you been spoiled by the elaborate meals from the kitchen?”
“I was not wrinkling my nose at your sandwich.” I might have been. The lift of his brow said he read me like a book. I huffed a laugh. “Okay, fine. The house kitchen is spoiling me rotten. I should end it now and tell them not to send me any more meals.”
“Don’t go overboard,” he murmured, eyes back on the road. “You’ll offend Amalie. She’s very proud of her kitchen.”
“It was an empty threat. I’m hooked well and good.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled. “If it’s difficult for you to fix your own meals, I’ll make you a sandwich.”
“Hey. I’m not a princess. I can make my own sandwich—thank you very much.” Though the idea of Lucian making one for me had its merits. Spending more time with him, chief among them.
He tossed me a challenging look. “Can you really?”
“You don’t have to look so dubious. All right . . . I admit I am a horrible cook. Everything comes out bland or dry. But I can slap peanut butter on bread.”
His expression told me all I needed to know about his thoughts on my