Page 114
Every time he blinked he saw her — that slow, deliberate stretch in the hallway, the thin white tank top pulling tight across her breasts, the devastating reveal of bare skin and angel-wing tattoos as she peeled it off and glanced back at him over her shoulder. The image was burned in.
Permanent. Dangerous.
If he was being honest, Cal was a little freaked out by how badly he wanted that look again. Not just the heat of it.
The smile.
That small, wicked, delighted curve of her mouth that made his stomach flip and his legs feel strangely unreliable. He kept catching himself listening for her laugh upstairs, already hungry for it like some lovesick idiot.
The knife paused over the sourdough.
Okay. Just relax. No big deal. You’re just making lunch for the two of you. Sandwiches. Prosciutto. Provolone. Olive oil. Normal shit.
He exhaled sharply, closing his eyes.
And for the love of God, Meridian, stop thinking about her ass.
The sound of bare feet on the stairs made his pulse jump anyway.
He kept his eyes on the cutting board as she came into the kitchen, but he felt her the second she appeared in the doorway — like the whole room had tilted toward her.
Sage leaned against the doorframe, relaxed, hair still damp from the shower, wearing those tight black jeans that hugged her thick curves like a second skin and a soft black “Cowgirls” t-shirt that clung to the full swell of her breasts. The hem had ridden up just enough to show a tempting sliver of soft stomach.
Fuck.
Cal’s grip tightened on the knife.
“You’re staring,” he said, voice low.
“I’m observing,” she replied, a smile in her tone. “There’s a difference.”
He grunted.
“Hmmm… not sure I heard that one before…” Sage said as she pushed off the doorframe and sauntered over, those wide hips swaying with every step. She slid onto the stool across the counter, folded her arms on the cool walnut surface, and rested her chin on them — still watching him like he was the most interesting thing in the room.
“Did that grunt mean ‘Fine, you can stare’? or did it mean, ‘Stop staring, Sage, you’re making me shy?’”
He sliced the bread without looking up.
Mostly because he didn’t trust himself not to lose a finger if he did. He wasn’t going to think about the way her shirt melted to her curves. He definitely wasn’t going to think about that. Nope. Not him.
He was building a sandwich. He was a man who built sandwiches. This was what he did.
“You cook a lot,” she said.
“Mmm.”
“Like… a lot a lot.”
“You eat a lot.”
She grinned.
He caught it in his peripheral vision and redirected his attention firmly on the cutting board. Prosciutto. Provolone. The imported olive oil from that place in Tuscany that Michael had sent six bottles of as a housewarming gift years ago. Roasted red peppers. Basil, torn between his fingers — sharp, sweet, normal.
Normal things. Grounded things.
He set the plates down carefully. Pulled out the stool across from her and sat. For a moment they were quiet the way they’d grown comfortable being quiet — not empty, not careful, just two people who didn’t need to fill every second with noise.
