As Grace busied herself in the kitchen, taking items out of her reusable shopping bags, Sam cracked an India Pale Ale and leaned against the counter.
With the kitchen as narrow as it was, it forced their bodies close together. Every time she reached for something near him, he stayed put, liking the way her gaze lifted to his when she brushed against him.
He loved watching her. She never seemed self-conscious at all, and she tended to wear tantalizingly conservative clothing. Since working at the office, she’d taken to dressing more business-like, and right now she wore beige trousers and a white blouse that made his mind return to the whole sexy librarian scenario all over again.
Each day, or sometimes all night, he spent his time doing Allan’s bidding, all the while thinking about what new adventure he could take Grace on next. What would make her eyes light up with delight? What would tempt her to stay longer?
Now, as he watched, her slender fingers folded the shopping bags, then stacked them together. Her next words stopped the bottle of ale from reaching his lips. “Is there one of those for me?” She didn’t look at him when she asked the question.
Instead of taking a drink, he extended the bottle toward her. She gave him one of her small smiles, swiped it, and took a swig. He grabbed another from the fridge and popped the top.
Setting the bottle beside her on the counter, she rummaged in the cupboard beside the oven. She had her hair piled on her head as usual, loose tendrils spilling out and making him want to kiss the back of her neck.
He shook his head to resist the urge. “What are you making?”
“We,” she said with emphasis as she looked at him over her shoulder, “are making my mom’s famous southwest casserole.” She filled a pot with water and set it on the range. “I was trying to think of something American you wouldn’t find here.”
“Can’t say I’ve ever had southwest casserole before, famous or otherwise.”
Her lips twitched in that delicious way of hers. As he’d been getting to know her, he’d been learning the nuances in her expressions. When her lips twitched, she thought something was amusing. When her eyes narrowed, she was trying to intimidate. If she sent him a small smile, it was the equivalent of one of his grins. Even if she wore her serious expression, her eyes always gave her away, and he looked for ways to crack her reserved exterior.
When she stared down at the stove top, her expression fell. “I know this is going to sound really dumb, but I’ve never started a gas range before. We’ve always had electric. Do I need a lighter or something?”
“Uh, no.” He kept his face somber so she wouldn’t think he was laughing at her, then stepped up behind her. “It’s easy. Turn the knob for the burner until it makes a clicking noise. And once it’s lit, keep turning until the flame is where you want it.” He reached around her to demonstrate.
She inhaled sharply when his arm brushed hers. Leaning forward enough to smell her hair—vanilla and spice—his heart beat hard in his chest as he turned the knob. He stayed where he was until a small flame stabilized.
“You’re right,” she said, clearing her throat. “That was easy.”
Turning her head, she met his gaze. Her throat bobbed when she swallowed, her cheeks turning pink.
All week he’d wanted to kiss her. The thought made his gaze dart to her lips, lush and rose colored, often bare of gloss or lipstick. Too many times he’d wanted to pull her close while they were touring around, to take her hand or set his arm around her shoulders. Whenever they saw couples together, his mind had him doing the things they were doing.
When she dropped her gaze, he stepped back until he bumped into the counter on the other side. It was getting way too hot in here, and it had nothing to do with the gas range. His throat dry, he took another pull of his IPA.
Grace busied herself filling a pot of water to put on the burner, then taking the large cutting board from where it lived tucked against the side wall.
“So what am I doing to help?” he asked after clearing his throat and setting his ale aside.
“You can cut some vegetables.” She tossed an onion at him, and he caught it against his chest. “Dice that. Mince some garlic. Mutilate the tomatoes.”
“Mutilate?”
“Well, chop nicely if you can find a knife sharp enough.”
While he chopped, she found a frying pan, turned on another burner, and took minced beef out of brown waxed paper. As soon as he finished dicing the onion, she threw it and the beef into the pan. Then, since the other pot of water was boiling, she dumped a package of dried elbow macaroni in it.
“So your mom is a good cook?”
“Yeah, she was always making or baking something when I was a kid. It was the one thing we could bond over.” She glanced at him, then concentrated on the sizzling meat. The aromatic scent of onion wafted around them. “Does your mom like to cook?”
“Not really. She could do a few things but was happiest when we had a maid and a cook to do all the housework. Very career oriented, my mother.”
“You said yesterday she’s a lawyer too?”
“Yes, a solicitor. And my dad too. A family thing.”
She grinned like something he said was funny.
“What?”
“We don’t call them solicitors back home. That would be more like someone going door to door trying to sell you something.”
That made an image of his parents as door-to-door salespeople form in his head. It made him grin. “We use lawyer as a catch-all term including solicitors and barristers. My parents don’t end up in court for any of their cases.”
“I get it,” she said with a nod.
With her list taken care of, there were only green chilies left by the cutting board. “How many of these am I cutting?”
“What kind of spice level do you like? Lots of heat?”
“I can take a lot of heat.” He lifted his gaze to hers.
Her cheeks flushed. “Slice them all, then.”
It took a lot of will power not to smile at her blush. He knew he was probably a right bastard for enjoying the way he could sometimes unbalance her. Cracking her composure was way too fun.
With the meat mostly browned, she backed away from the range and stared at the oven below. A scowl overtook her features. “What’s three-fifty Fahrenheit in Celsius?”
“Good question.” He pulled out his phone to check. A quick search, and it popped up on a conversion chart. “One eighty.”
She nodded once and set the oven to the correct temperature. “All right, everything goes into the pan now.”
Together they added all the vegetables along with kidney beans, tomato paste, salt, pepper, chili powder, and ground cumin.
“Well, that’s smelling delicious,” he said in his best American accent.
A laugh erupted from Grace’s throat and kept going. He’d never heard her laugh so hard and loved it.
Hand to her chest, she sputtered, “You doing a Southern accent is the funniest thing I think I’ve ever heard.”
“Okay, you do British,” he said, reveling at the joy on her face.
“Hmmm. Okay. I heard a new one today I wanted to ask you about, so I’ll give it a go.” Clearing her throat, she tried to put on her Miss Serious face. “Did you hear Maggie’s up the duff?”
If Sam had been drinking at the time, he would have spit it out all over her. The phrase paired with her incredibly bad accent was too much. He laughed so hard his stomach ached.
A bewildered smile teased at the corners of her mouth. “What? What does it mean?”
He held up a hand, catching his breath. “It means pregnant, but a rather rude way of putting it.”
“Doesn’t make sense to me.” She pursed her lips, then shook her head. “I’ll never get the hang of it.” She turned back to the pan and gave it a shake and a stir. “But my accent was pretty bang on, wasn’t it?”
He caught the laugh in his throat and took a sip from his ale. “Sure.”
The glare she sent him shouldn’t have been so cute, but it was. She turned off the burner, and together they layered the macaroni, meat mixture, Monterey Jack cheese, and green chilies in a casserole dish she’d managed to scrounge up. He hadn’t known there was one in the flat. They wrapped the top in aluminium foil.
Grace slid the dish in the oven and closed the door. “Now it’s got to bake for thirty minutes covered and fifteen uncovered.”
“A bit of a wait.”
“That’s why I brought this,” she said. With a twinkle in her eyes, she pulled a bottle of red wine out of the one bag left on the counter.
“Good thinking.”
“I thought so.”
A few minutes later, they settled themselves on the sofa in the living room, a lowball glass of wine in their hands. More of her hair had fallen out of her bun, and he had the urge to lean in close and take the rest of it down. She never wore her hair loose. It was always in a twist or a bun. He wondered how long it was.
“How was work?” he asked, so he wouldn’t follow through with the thought.
“Oh, you know. Same old, same old.” Then she straightened. “Actually, it was strange. I found an old case file at the office with Mrs. Patel’s name on it.”
He stiffened. “Really?” His heart beat a bit faster as she nodded, her eyes taking in his reaction.
“Yeah, she thought the apartment downstairs was haunted, but Allan decided she was nuts and didn’t take her case.”
“Haunted,” he repeated, his throat suddenly dry. He took a sip of his wine.
“Yeah, the apartment beneath us. Weird, right?”
“Definitely weird.” He took another sip. “We all know there’s no such thing as ghosts.”
Her posture relaxed, and it looked like she wanted to say more but then took a sip of her wine. After a while, she said, “You told me yesterday you’re a lawyer but you don’t like being a lawyer. Why did you spend all that time in school, then?”
Even though he appreciated the change in topic, he would have picked something else to talk about. “It was expected,” he finally said. “Everything I did in life was expected of me until I did something unexpected a few months ago.”
“Moving to London.”
“That’s right.”
“And how’s it working out for you?”
Somehow throughout the conversation, they’d inched closer until their thighs were almost touching. “Pretty well, actually. Except for the guilt call from my father every other day.”
Her hazel eyes searched his face, her lips tinged red from wine, the glass held loosely in her hand. “Must be annoying.”
“I’ve gotten used to it.” He noticed one strand of her hair in particular had inched loose, the end of it tickling her neck. He wanted to take it and wrap it around his finger, feel it’s silky smoothness before brushing his fingers along the pulse at her throat.
She shifted the last inch, the heat of her thigh against his. He couldn’t look away from her eyes, the intensity in the way her gaze roamed his face. “Can I ask you something?” she whispered.
“Yes.” He kept his voice quiet too.
“Are we dating?”
His heart double-thumped in his chest. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Oh, that’s good. Because I’ve been wanting to do this for a while.”
Setting both their drinks on the coffee table, she leaned forward and brushed her lips against his. Fire went through him at the soft touch. The kiss was tentative at first, her lips gentle. Even though every cell in him screamed to grab her and kiss her hard, he held back, letting her to take the lead, set the pace.
Her tongue darted out, running along his bottom lip. He nipped at her, then swallowed her gasp as he settled his lips more fully on hers. The touch of her tongue was hesitant at first, but soon became bold. Every stroke, every touch, burned a fire right through him to settle in his groin. He wanted to pull her into his lap, to have her straddle him and cup the pulsing ache forming between his legs with her heat. He wanted to tear every pin out of her hair and bury his face into her scent.
She pulled back but just barely. He could close the gap between their bodies in a heartbeat.
“That was nice,” she whispered, her voice a throaty purr.
It was better than nice. It was fantastic, and he wanted more. But he also didn’t want to rush her into something she wasn’t ready for.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” His words came out strained, and he cleared his throat.
“Not sure.” Her eyes went to his lips then back up again.
“Can I take you out?”
“Yeah.” She shifted forward, this time running her hands up his chest to his neck and over his head. Everywhere she touched him, he tingled.
Her mouth settled on his again, and he drank from her, every stroke of her tongue satisfying a thirst he hadn’t understood until right now. He didn’t think he’d ever get enough of Grace.
The kiss went on and on until his hands were roving up her back, feeling every contour of her body. He reached for the pins in her hair, intent on letting it down.
The timer in the kitchen dinged.
Grace stiffened in his arms and pulled back. The heat building between them stalled. The intoxicated look in her eyes cleared.
“Time to take the cover off,” she said, her voice rough. Clearing her throat, she stood, straightened her clothing, smoothed her hair, then headed off for the next step of casserole baking.
His mind was going to covers too, but it definitely wasn’t the aluminium foil kind.