Filthy English (English #2) - Ilsa Madden-Mills Page 0,67
sitting at the kitchen table working on a puzzle of The Globe Theatre I’d gotten him in London while I stirred the spaghetti sauce I had on the stove.
The front door opened and my body tensed. Dax. I’d sent him a text earlier thanking him for my breakfast, and he’d replied with a K.
I turned as he walked in the kitchen, trying to keep my eyes off his body in a pair of athletic shorts and a fitted shirt that clung to every muscle in his abdomen. I noticed his face was softer than last night, his eyes hesitant, almost questioning.
“Smells amazing in here,” he murmured, his gaze drifting over me, lingering on my hair. My lips.
My heart ached at the sight of him. Stupid heart.
“Thanks.”
His shoulders dipped. “Look, Remi, I—I’m sorry for last night in the bathroom.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll let you hit me if you want—right in the gut.” He grinned and patted his six-pack abs, and some of the tension from last night I’d been holding in melted.
Malcolm looked up at both of us, blinked. “You might want to rethink that. She has a mean right hook that Dad taught her.”
“Thanks for the warning, man,” Dax said, giving Malcolm a fist bump. “I’ve actually seen your sister in action, and it wasn’t too shabby.” He smiled at me—but it seemed off as he fidgeted from one foot to the other.
“No need for hitting,” I said. “There’s plenty of spaghetti here if you want some.”
He smirked. “You won’t try and poison me?”
“I never said I was a good cook. It might just kill you anyway.”
He moved to the stove and stood next to me as I checked the noodles I’d put on earlier.
Keep your eyes off him.
“Homemade sauce?” From my peripheral vision, I felt his gaze boring into me.
“Yep—if you count Ragu with some spices and meat thrown in.”
“Cool. Want me to do anything?” He inched toward me, the heat from his arm near mine.
“Uh, maybe set the table and get us some drinks.”
“What would you like?” he asked.
I swallowed. “There’s Coke and Newcastle in the fridge I bought today. Malcolm will want lemonade.”
“Which do you want?” Another inch closer, and I caught the heady scent of sweat and man.
“What?”
“Which drink do you want?” he asked, a hint of laughter in his voice.
“Beer.”
“Me too.” He brushed past me, his fingers grazing the side of my leg.
I inhaled and kept stirring. Total accident. It was a small kitchen.
He set my beer down on the counter already opened and propped himself back on the counter to stare more.
Did I have a zit?
“You want to put the garlic bread in the oven?” I asked a bit later as I poured the noodles into the colander.
He paused, a strange expression on his face. “You want me to put a bun in the oven?”
Of course I got the joke, but it was out of place and odd. “Yes.”
“Okay.”
“Thanks.” I poured the noodles back in the hot pot so they’d stay warm. I shrugged. “I guess I should have put it in earlier. Now our pasta will be cold.”
“Nothing is ever cold when I’m with you,” he murmured, putting the bread in.
Malcolm sent us a curious look, his hand pausing over a puzzle piece.
I started. Something was definitely wrong with Dax tonight.
A few minutes later, we carefully transported the puzzle to a place in the den to make room for our dinner on the table.
“It’s our first cooked meal in the new house,” Dax said quietly, his eyes on me. “Thank you.”
My entire body tingled at his gaze. God, would I ever stop wanting him?
We sat down to eat and Dax kept sneaking little looks at me, the intensity of his attention making me self-conscious. Once, I’d even excused myself to run upstairs and check my appearance. I looked fine. My hair was kind of a mess, but I didn’t see anything on my face. I sniffed my armpits. I didn’t smell.
Later after we’d eaten and Dax had cleaned up, I hung out in the kitchen and baked chocolate chip cookies while Dax ran upstairs for a shower. I figured he had plans.
Malcolm plopped himself in the recliner in the den and flipped through the channels. He wanted to watch a movie, so I put the finished cookies on a plate and carried them into the den.
Dax was sitting in the middle of the couch with wet hair, dressed in loose sweats and a Tau t-shirt.
“It’s Saturday night. Aren’t you going out?” I asked.