Flash Burned (Burned 2)

“You win. As always,” I said. “In addition to a great orgasm, I agreed to marry you.”

“Yes, you did.” His mouth sealed mine in a tantalizing lip-lock that made my toes curl and my pussy throb.

He didn’t let up and I melted against him, grateful for his strong arms holding me tight. Mine encircled his neck and I clung to him, letting him take his time, letting him take the lead.

Until I lost myself in him.

* * *

We were a few minutes late for our rescheduled tee time with my dad. He pretended it was no big deal, but I could tell it irked him, being the former pro that he was. My game was severely off, which also concerned him. I didn’t give a damn about my score. How was I supposed to concentrate when all I could think about was Dane—and the fact that he wanted to someday marry me?

Following an unusually poor showing on my part, but stellar on Dad’s and Dane’s, we met up at the house.

“This is for you,” my father said as he handed over a lovely autumn centerpiece for our dinner table. It didn’t quite scream Thanksgiving, because he wasn’t into holidays. Hadn’t been since his nasty divorce from my mother, whom I’d rarely ever spoken with after I’d turned eighteen. Until she’d shown up on my doorstep a couple of months ago, trying to extort money from me. Telling me she’d exploit the affairs she’d had when my dad was on his PGA tours with a tell-all book.

Dane had eventually stepped in … and that had been that. I’d never had to mention a word to my dad or freak him out in any way, for which I was grateful.

“This floral arrangement is perfect.” I gave him a peck on the cheek. “Thanks, Dad.”

I left the men to football on the ginormous screen in Dane’s theater room while I went into the kitchen. Chef D’Angelo had sworn I couldn’t fuck up his extremely detailed instructions for Chicken Saltimbocca and I prayed he was right. Not only did I want my father to enjoy dinner with us, I also wanted to impress Dane with my developing culinary skills.

A small insecurity I couldn’t shake. He excelled at everything. Even as he joked about not having much talent with food and saying all he knew about cooking came from Betty Crocker—since he’d grown up having personal chefs at his beck and call—he still made the most amazing omelets and eggs Benedict. Maybe it was crazy to want to do something just slightly better than him. I suspected this was the only arena in which I could compete.

So … game on.

I had a couple of hours to prepare, since we’d had a late lunch on the course. Therefore, I pan-seared boneless, skinless chicken breasts and then slow-cooked them in a creamy white-wine-and-asparagus-flavored Alfredo sauce I concocted, with fresh prosciutto, sage, and chunks of mushrooms. I added crisp asparagus spearheads toward the end of the process, along with quarters of cherry tomatoes, so they were warmed but still juicy. Then I sliced the chicken and arranged it on a platter, drizzling the sauce over it.

As a secondary dish I grilled a couple of medium-rare, peppercorn-encrusted New York Strips.

I set the largest of the tables on the patio so I could place all of the food there with us and no one had to move to enjoy. I served a tossed salad with a zesty Italian dressing. Fettuccine accompanied the chicken; whipped garlic potatoes complemented the steak. I’d also baked sourdough and artisan breads, which I paired with olive oil and balsamic vinegar with rosemary, and a basil aioli.

Dane selected the wines from his vast cellar and also nestled a bottle of private-reserve Dom in a chiller.

“This is quite the feast, sweets,” my dad said as he eyed the spread.

“Let’s hope it tastes as good as it smells,” I quipped.

“It’ll be fantastic.” He grinned. “I didn’t realize you cooked more than spaghetti and fish.”

“I’ve been spending a lot of time with the Food and Beverage people at work—I’m sort of inspired. Really, considering how much I’ve eaten the past couple of months, it’s a wonder I’m still hungry tonight. Or that I have any clothes that fit.”

“You look sensational, as always,” Dane said with a wink as he offered a glass of bubbly.

My cheeks flushed over his flirtation in front of my father—who cleared his throat and tried not to appear uncomfortable with the way Dane gazed so lustfully at me.

Unfortunately given my mass consumption of food of late, I couldn’t block the flash of Dane’s childhood friend Mikaela Madsen from my mind. His supertall, superhot, supermodel-like friend, to be exact.

She’d attempted to buddy up to me when she’d seen Dane and me together a few times, but then dropped out of sight when I’d left the Lux. And Dane.

I was certain that once she returned from Italy with her boyfriend and soon-to-be business partner, Fabrizio Catalano, and discovered I was back at the hotel—and back with Dane—that she’d be knocking on my office door with gifts, like before. Keep her enemies close, I suspected was her game.

She had her own security badge for 10,000 Lux, after all. Something no other nonemployee possessed, given Dane’s ultra-tight safety and confidentiality measures. They didn’t apply to Mikaela. I’m not sure any rules did.

But I didn’t want to spoil the evening with thoughts of the Heidi Klum look-alike, so I forced myself to get over it.

When both men had champagne in hand, Dane casually said, “Here’s to good company, good food, and good health.” Not making a fuss about the holiday. I appreciated that greatly, and I could see that my dad did as well.

We all clinked rims and sipped.