Page 66 of Peaches & Pistols

Pulling my balls from wherever they’ve been hiding, I enter my own goddamn house, pretending I’m not a nervous wreck.

“Perfect timing,” Mia chirps from the kitchen.

Her golden waves are braided down her back, pieces amiss from how hard I know she’s been working on dinner.

A white, oversized crop top hangs off one shoulder, light purple yoga pants covering her legs, and white tube socks pulled up haphazardly.

She’s stunning.

“The cobbler’s setting up nicely and I just pulled the chicken parmesan from the broiler. I know you like the cheese extra bubbly.”

That. Things like that right there are why this woman is extraordinary.

A gulp bulges my throat because I’m socially inept and can’t respond appropriately. Instead, I dance around her in the kitchen to set the table. Mia likes to have all the serving dishes in the center of the table family-style, so I lay out hot pads for her.

“I got the beer you like. You were almost out.” She dips into the fridge for something.

“While I was there, I grabbed some sparkling wine.” Her cheeks flush the prettiest pink, holding the bottle out like a prize.

Does she see tonight as a date?

Fuck if I won’t take her out for a real date. If that’s something she wants.

The steaming-hot dishes are on the table and Mia’s on her tip-toes trying to reach the wine glasses from the top shelf of the drinkware cabinet.

Reaching higher than her fingertips extend, her shirt rises dangerously high up her back. I’m going to hell, because instead of jumping to help her, I fold my arms across my chest and admire her ass.

Her slender waist would fit perfectly encircled by my hands. My fingers ache to dust across the soft skin stretched over her ribs, arms extended overhead—but instead of in my kitchen, she’d be splayed beneath me, chest heaving, her wrists locked in one hand, while the other explored every dip and curve.

My feet are moving before I make a conscious decision to help her.

Her sharp intake of breath presses her back into my chest as I loom behind her. I cage her in with my arms, one braced on the counter next to her hip and one reaching to get the wine glasses. Her body presses against mine as she lowers to flat feet.

With the glasses in front of her, I slide the bottle of sparkling wine closer and open it with her wrapped in my arms. One by one, Mia holds a wine glass steady so I can fill it with the crisp bubbles.

I carry the glasses in one hand, and the bottle in the other, to the table and pull out her chair. The look of surprise on her still-flushed face slicks my gut with shame.

Not once since I’ve met her have I pulled a chair out for Mia. I open or close a car door for her on occasion. I’m a man, and I treat my woman with adoration and respect. But Mia hasn’t been my woman.

She’s been the all-too forbidden nanny haunting my dreams.

Pushing in her chair, I take a seat in the one right beside her, instead of across the table in my usual spot.

Most family meals, Mia stands to fill everyone’s plates before her own and doesn’t sit until everyone’s taken care of.

Not tonight.

I dish her up before loading my plate with cheesy goodness.

“Thank you for cooking, it looks incredible, as always,” I praise.

“You’re welcome.” She tucks a stray curl behind her ear.

“What made you want to put in all this work for me? You should’ve taken your rare child-free night for yourself.” I grin, cutting into the perfectly cooked chicken, the first bite catapulting me to hog heaven.

“What if this is exactly how I wanted to spend my rare child-free night? Having a quiet dinner with you.” Her blue eyes glint as they flash to mine, and quickly away.

“You’ll never catch me complainin’ about my favorite meal, homecooked by the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.”