Nash Brothers Box Set - Carrie Aarons Page 0,286

rather than logic. This is one of the sexiest men I’ve ever met, in an understated way, and no one had touched his cock in five years. That just seemed wrong to me. So, I righted the problem.

Watching Fletcher Nash come undone because of my touch, my mouth … fuck, I have to rub my thighs together just thinking about it. The prickling friction I desire in between my legs is at the forefront of my brain when he swings the door open.

“Hey,” His smile is easy, and he pulls me into a hug.

Gosh, he smells good. Like cinnamon and mint in one big, beautiful manly package.

“Hi.” I press a light kiss to his cheek in a spur-of-the-moment decision.

Fletcher kissed me after our last date. Not that the kiss had been our first, or the date, technically. But it had felt like it. He’d done it in Presley and Keaton’s backyard, just outside my door to the guest cottage. All slow and gentle, placing his hands on my cheeks and coaxing me in for a gentle caress, that turned into a simmering, smoldering kiss. I’d felt like we were high schoolers, sneaking in our first bit of making out before mom and dad turned the porch light on. It was the perfect end to a pretty awesome night, and I went to bed with butterflies bigger than any I’d felt before.

“Wow, this place looks so good …” I break away from him, entering his apartment without his invite.

Behind me, Fletcher chuckles and says, “Come right in.”

“You’ve really done a lot, Fletch.” I use the nickname without thinking, but it feels right rolling off my tongue.

In the two weeks since we moved him in, he’s hung some cool wall art, gotten a rug for the living room, and set the kitchen table with a decorative wooden centerpiece I’m sure he made. Peeking into the bedroom, I can tell that the mattress and box spring are no longer on the floor but encased in a cognac tufted leather frame with a matching headboard.

“I like to think it looks more sophisticated than your average bachelor pad.” He pats himself on the back.

“And that smell …” My stomach grumbles and we both laugh.

I hand him the bag with a loaf of crispy, crunchy Italian bread, just like he asked me to pick up.

“Oh, this is perfect, thanks. Have a seat and I’ll serve us.”

When Fletcher asked if I wanted to come over for dinner, I got a bit nervous. Having a guy cook you dinner, alone in his apartment, it felt like fifth or sixth date territory. But then he clarified that he wanted to do something special for me and have me as his first guest at his new place … and I’d melted. It was a really sweet gesture.

Fine, my rose-tinted glasses were completely on, but Lily Nash had told me to jump in and she was the most conservative person I know, so I was following her advice.

The bread is in his one hand, and he laces his other through mine to lead me the short couple of steps to his table. It’s romantic, and I notice when he’s pulling out my chair, that he’s set two candlesticks in the center. There is a new white tablecloth draped over the surface, and he’s already set down plates and utensils.

“This is fancy.” I give him a sarcastic smile.

“Only the best for Ryan Shea.” His big hand squeezes my shoulder before he retreats to the kitchen.

My heart races with anticipation, because this is our third date. You know what they say about the third date.

“So, you cooked all this?” I ask, trying to distract myself.

“I mean … I may have gotten Carlo, the chef downstairs, to give me a couple of tips. And his special marinara sauce, but you knew I wouldn’t make that from scratch.”

Carrying two plates loaded with spaghetti and chicken parmesan, Fletcher sets one down in front of me before taking his seat. It smells like heaven, and I can’t think of a more comforting meal.

“You cooked the chicken and spaghetti, though? I’m hugely impressed. I burn microwave macaroni and cheese, so anything you do with a burner is already more advanced than my level of cooking.”

It’s true. You don’t want to eat my food for fear of poisoning … which I actually gave to Presley and me one time when I cooked chicken wings.

“Note to self, never accept an invitation to have you cook for me.” He sticks out