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That insane heat she breathes into my blood roars again, and I do my best to ignore it. “Give yourself some credit, Junie. The point is you’re succeeding.”
“Well, yeah. Maybe for now.” She pauses and doesn’t move again for more than a minute. “Dex…”
“Yeah?”
“I’m trying to concentrate and not flub my first go at lobster.”
Fuck, that reluctant rasp in her voice is so devastating. I could turn her around and take her right here.
But she’s right—we probablyshouldeat sometime tonight, and she deserves a chance to prep her first lobster without making it an overcooked mess, even if all I want to do is forget the damn dinner, bend her over, and—
“Sorry,” I whisper, retreating to the island where my wine waits.
She resumes cooking, her brow adorably knit together as she concentrates.
I work on mincing garlic to take my mind off all the sinful things I could do to her while we’re waiting. As we make the food, we talk about little memories.
Flying kites in the park with my brothers when we were kids.
Junie riding her bike down the street, already delivering cupcakes and other deadly sugar payloads to customers when she was just ten years old.
Summer trips with her grandma and aunts and more extended family than I can remember across the state and then down the Mississippi, all the way to New Orleans.
We don’t touch on our parents and I’m fine with that. Now isn’t the time to dive into heavy shit.
Finally, when the lobster looks succulent and the potatoes are whipped, I refill our glasses as we sit down at the kitchen island. It’s strange how warm the dining room feels with another person when I’m so used to eating alone.
“To your stay at the Chateaux Rory,” I say, holding up my glass. “However long it turns out to be.”
Not nearly fucking long enough,a voice growls in my head.
Smiling, she clinks her glass on mine, then glances down at her plate.
Lobster and garlic butter with whipped potatoes and a Persian Shirazi salad I threw together. It’s a restaurant worthy meal, yet she doesn’t look pleased.
“Something wrong with the grub?”
“Huh?” Her attention snaps back to me. “No, sorry, I was just thinking about… you know, the store. What else?”
“Dinner can’t take your mind off work? News flash, the meat’s tender and you didn’t ruin it.”
“I’m sorry, I—” Her eyebrows catch and she bites her lip, stricken.
“I’m joking, Sweet Stuff. I knew you’d go there again so I came ready. I said I’d give you some suggestions about where you can go with the store. Here.” I grab the pages I printed out for her earlier and spread them across the table.
“Wow. You really went all out.” She picks up a page with graphs and stares at it intently.
“You’ll be able to make more accurate projections than me, but this is what I estimate your approximate costs and revenue increases to be from each strategy.”
“You think I should move the store?” She frowns at the summary on the next page.
“A new location was one suggestion, although I will say it’s my least favorite, given the Sugar Bowl’s history in the same place. It would allow easier upgrades and expansions, though, and if you had a larger storefront with more seating, you could expand your menu, which always has the potential to ramp up sales.”
“Hmm.” She chews her lip. “But the old store has history. Ugh, I couldn’t leave…”
“I agree, which is why a refurbishment is still at the top of my list, but you knew that already.”
“Yeah.”
