Oh I remembered all right.
Boy did I remember.
I clenched my teeth and nodded my head once.
“You could get more of that before breakfast,” Lucien went on. “Would you like that?”
Lucien turning me on to the point my body screamed for release and then leaving me wanting?
No. I didn’t want that.
I shook my head.
He calmly took a sip of his coffee.
Edwina thankfully pretended she hadn’t heard a thing.
I pulled the grocery list to me and started to read it.
All of a sudden I felt Lucien behind me, the heat from his chest against my back as he leaned over me.
I detested a lot of things about him. His recent behavior was one shining example. When he went all nearly breaking the sound barrier vampire was another.
“Tonight, I want you to make your fried chicken for me,” he ordered. My mind cleared of the latest Humiliating Lucien Encounter and I twisted my neck to look up at him, dumbfounded.
“What?”
His eyes caught mine. “Your fried chicken.”
My fried chicken?
I did, of course, make great fried chicken. The best. It was one of my only real talents.
But how the hell would he know that?
A weird chill ran up my spine.
“How do you know about my fried chicken?” I whispered.
His chin motioned to the pad of paper on the table and he didn’t answer my question.
Instead he commanded, “Put the ingredients down.”
“How do you –?”
“Just write down the ingredients, Leah.”
I gaped at him.
Then I considered my recipe, which required at least overnight marinating of the chicken in my famous buttermilk marinade.
It wouldn’t be near as good without time to marinade.
“I can’t,” I told him.
His eyes narrowed.
“No, really, I can’t. It’s the marinade. It needs at least…” I looked at the clock on the microwave, it was nearly ten, “eight hours of marinading!” My voice was rising dramatically but what could I say? I had a fried chicken reputation to keep up. Every woman knew how important that was. “And even that isn’t optimal. Anything less just isn’t worth it. I don’t even have eight hours!”