SLOW PLAY (7-Stud Club #4) - Christie Ridgway Page 0,47
eyes turned up to his, his mind stopped working. Words didn’t reach his tongue. They only swirled around inside him.
You’re so beautiful.
Why does a face like yours make me ache?
How can I convince you back to my bed?
She smiled at him. “You had a point you wanted to make?”
“Yeah.” He cupped that heart-stopping face in his hands. “I missed you damn more than I could have imagined.”
“It’s only been a few hours,” she said, though her smile deepened.
It had been much longer than hours. Days. Months. Years.
Shit. He couldn’t admit to that. He shouldn’t admit to that, even to himself.
Kiss, he decided.
Lowering his mouth to hers, he tasted her, and his pulse rocketed, then settled, at a higher rate than before, but steady. The kiss eased the sharpness of that ache.
To draw in breath, his head lifted. They stared at each other.
“Wow,” Harper finally said. “I had some idea I was going to resist you, as well as kisses like that, but I’ve forgotten the exact reason why.”
His mouth touched hers again, because he’d already steamrolled over his own thoughts of resistance.
This time when he drew back, she had a dazed look in her eyes. “Yeah. I’m gladder by the minute that you agreed to come tonight.”
“Why did you invite me for dinner?”
A goodbye? Because despite the pleasure he found with her in his arms, he did need to keep in mind that she was on her way out again.
“Do I need an excuse?” She lifted onto her toes for another short kiss.
He groaned. “No.”
“Though there might be a little reward for you if you get Grandpop to talk about what’s happening around here.”
“I feel so used,” he said lightly, and kissed her again.
“Don’t interrogate him,” she warned. “I’ve sort of promised not to spill the beans myself, but if he opens up to you I’ll be able to head back to Vegas with less worry.”
Heading back to Las Vegas. She kept saying that, so he didn’t need to worry about kissing her again. And again.
Coming up for air once more, she leaned into him, her palms braced on his chest. “Knowing you’re keeping an eye out for the family will give me peace of mind.”
“I can do that without Eugene—”
Harper’s name was called up the stairs. Then, “Maddox! Dinner!”
“Let’s go.” She grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the bedroom door.
He resisted. “I will look out for them when you leave again. No matter what gets shared over the meal.”
“You really do want that reward, don’t you?” And the flirty look she threw over his shoulder kept him right on her heels all the way to the dining room table.
The food was incredible. Roast chicken, roasted potatoes, asparagus, squash stuffed with onions and other squashes, a salad that included green apples and walnuts. Mad dug in with enthusiasm and many compliments to the chef.
“Not all the ingredients are straight from Sunnybird Farm,” Mary Hill confessed, “but the others come from nearby growers.”
A kick met his shin and Mad shot a look at Harper who sat at his elbow. Her eyes widened.
He thought quickly. Nearby growers. Okay, a lead-in.
Mad cleared his throat. “Your, uh, your farm is near the Cochran acreage, right, Eugene?”
The older man looked over, speculation sparking in his gaze. “What makes you ask about Jerome?”
Trying to keep it casual, Mad pierced a delicious, moist bite of chicken with his fork. “I’ve heard there’s been some fruit loss at his place.”
Eugene narrowed his gaze. “Any grower loses some fruit, of course.”
“Right.” He glanced at Harper. “Pests, weather, that sort of thing. But I’m talking about criminal loss. It happens.”
A long quiet descended on the table.
Finally, Harper broke it with a frustrated huff. “Oh my God. Snitches don’t get stitches, Grandpop! Just tell Mad what’s been going on.”
Her grandfather frowned at her. “Harper—”
“Someone’s stealing farm tools in the area, as well as avocados, and other things,” Mary Hill said, then slid a look at her husband. “We don’t have a reason to be secretive, Eugene. We’re not cultivating weed without a license.”
Mad had to quickly wipe his mouth with a napkin to hide his grin. Something about Harper’s grandmother talking about cultivating weed made him want to laugh.
Eugene Hill looked down at his plate. “I’ve been handling my own problems on the farm since 1968,” he grumbled. “Why whine to the fuzz now?”
Rebecca’s own laughter burst free. “Okay, Dad, I just can’t keep it together when you refer to Maddox as ‘the fuzz.’”