“Right,” she whispered, her gaze dropping to his mouth. “Just dinner.”
Marc nudged his dog on the rump, and Wingman, who was sniffing every inch of the stoop and rubbing his back against Lexi’s railing, got to his wingman duties and loped into the house before she could change her mind. After a sniff to Lexi’s crotch, Wingman found his way upstairs, and Marc used the distraction to step inside and close the door behind him. “I brought wine.”
“What a surprise,” she deadpanned, but she seemed to have a hard time taking her eyes off him when she grabbed the bottle. “It’s a DeLuca.”
“Sure am, cream puff. And you look nice too,” he whispered and gave her a kiss on the cheek, quick enough for friendly, but too close to her lips to pass as casual.
Wingman stationed himself at the top of the stairs, ears alert, tail up like an antenna, plate already licked clean, while they took a seat at the table. Lexi remained silent, her hands shoved under her thighs, and Marc realized that she was forcibly restraining herself from yanking the plate with a standard pork chop out of his hand and making him try the other dish.
He chewed his bite of chop, and the second he swallowed she asked, “So?”
“It’s good. Cooked to perfection, the sauce—”
“A fig-jam glaze.”
He smiled. “The fig-jam glaze is sweet and tart and goes well with the rice. Technically perfect.” And boring.
“It’s a braised pork chop in a fig-jam glaze over a bed of wild mushroom and pistachio pilaf. A Showdown classic.” Unable to help herself, she reached across the table, snatched the plate right as he was going for a second bite, and replaced it with the other dish. “Now try this.”
Marc raised a brow, chuckling when she sat back and once again shoved her hands securely under her legs. He slid the plate closer and sniffed. It was meat, but sliced thin and rolled around some kind of smelly cheese. He wasn’t big on smelly cheese, but she was watching, all wide eyes and hopeful stares.
Deliberately, he took his time cutting into it, loving how her mouth opened when his did and how she was moving her lips as though the simple act would hurry him along.
The first bite exploded in his mouth, and Marc groaned, he actually groaned, over a piece of meat and cheese with a red sauce drizzled on top. All that crap he’d said a minute ago was exactly what a-holes like Trey would say when trying to impress some chick. Marc didn’t know julienne from mandoline. Hell, pretty much all he knew about food was what he liked, meat, and what he didn’t, anything with bell peppers, green shit, and french toast. But this, this was…
“Jesus Christ, Lexi. What’s in this?” He took another bite. Groaning again, this time louder.
“A rolled pork loin stuffed with sautéed figs, gorgonzola dolce, and pistachios, basted in a balsamic and red wine reduction and served with a wild mushroom and truffle oil quinoa.”
“So there’s no unicorn hooves or leprechaun blood in here?”
She pressed her lips together as she shook her head, but he could still see her smile. It was too big and honest to hide.
It took a glass of wine and him eating half of his dinner before Lexi took her first bite. Another half glass of wine later and she finally started to relax. By the time he was refilling her glass for the second time, she had slipped off her shoes and tucked her bare feet up under her legs until everything but her pink-tipped toes disappeared under the skirt of her dress.
Figuring that this was the portion of the evening where he got to charm and delight her with his business prowess, Marc pulled out two files, one explaining exactly where the bakery was, financially speaking; the other was his plan for how she could save her company. Too bad she couldn’t get past how bad the first one was to even get to the part where he got to beat his chest and revel in his brilliance at the second.
“So then expanding right now isn’t the smartest decision,” she said, looking down at the spreadsheet of Pricilla’s current financials. She was no longer smiling, and Marc was pretty sure she was about two seconds away from crying. The numbers were bad, but not bad enough that they should make one of the toughest women he knew cry.