various species of boa constrictors.
“What’re you working on?” Tiller asked on one of his passes through the kitchen for more ice water and a banana.
“Watching YouTube videos on food photography.”
He stepped up behind me until I could feel the damp warmth coming off his sweaty skin. “You want to take pictures?”
“Definitely not,” I said with a sigh. “But apparently I need to at least have a say in how I want these dishes presented in photos. I’m not sure yet who’s doing the styling and photography, but I don’t want to sound like a yard full of crickets when they ask me what my vision is.”
“Why don’t you hire an expert?”
Sweet little multimillionaire and his innocent view of the world.
“Uh, because it costs thousands of dollars and I don’t have an NFL contract?” I closed the laptop and reached for my bottle of water. I’d already noticed how dry the air was here, and I’d been trying my best to stay hydrated. All I needed was to have Tiller accuse me of not practicing what I preached.
He was silent for a minute before shrugging. “I do. I can pay for it.”
I turned to face him, almost in slow motion. It was one thing for him to buy me breakfast with his millions of dollars. Often, he paid for things like that when we were together because it was easier to get one check and the impact on his wallet was infinitesimal. I used to fight him on it all the time until finally realizing it made him feel good to take little burdens off me like that.
But this? This was personal. This was like offering to buy me a car.
“Um, no. But thank you for offering,” I said, trying not to lend any additional meaning to his casual offer than a friend trying to help another friend out.
“Wait,” he said, taking a seat at the kitchen island and pulling the laptop open again in front of him. “Hear me out.”
“No, thanks,” I singsonged, moving over to check on the bread dough I’d left to rise. I didn’t usually make bread, but this was a high-protein, vegan loaf that would allow families to continue making sandwiches for people who didn’t like the idea of using lettuce leaves or thin wraps. People like Tiller before I finally got him onto the seven-grain wraps he swore by now.
“Don’t be stubborn. Listen to me.” Tiller’s voice had turned serious, so I stopped and met his eyes. “Let me do this for you.”
Well, hell. How weird would it be for me to rip off my clothes and attack him right here on the kitchen island?
I spoke around the thick lump in my throat. “I can’t.”
“Mikey…”
No. Hell no. If he started using that affectionate tone with me, all bets would be off.
My clothes begged to be tossed aside. My dick begged to press up against him with a groan of hard need. Apparently, I was a “kind offerings” slut. What was up with that?
“I…” My voice sounded breathless and weird. I cleared my throat. “I appreciate your help. I do. But this is something I need to do myself.”
He met my eyes for a moment before nodding firmly. “Then I’ll help in other ways. Free ways. How about that?”
I nodded, refusing to think of the kind of free ways I might enjoy. “I’d like that. Thank you.”
Tiller’s grin was the one that could be used in war to subdue angry villagers. Or the one that could be used in a club to attract horny twinks into wanting to climb the man like a tree.
He hasn’t had sex in three years.
My stomach wobbled again. What if… what if I could take care of that for him? Just… a quick suck or jerk. Or hump. Or sixty-nine… Would that be so bad? We were a thousand miles away from everyone we knew. No one would ever find out if we hooked up on vacation.
I let myself fall into the daydream as I began punching down the bread dough. Of course, I wouldn’t actually do it, come on to my boss, but a boy could dream, right?
It was nice being here alone with him and kind of pretending to be a couple. Clearly we weren’t actually pretending to be a couple, but everyone in town had made assumptions, and… well, it was kind of nice. I liked the idea that it wasn’t so unbelievable a man like Tiller Raine would pick a little nobody of a guy like me.