Storm (Sex and Bullets 1)

He’s watching me under dark, lowered lashes. His own food is still untouched on his plate, though his wine glass is almost empty.

My cheeks flame.

“Would you like some more lasagna?” he asks. “Don’t be shy. Told you it was good.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“Why not? You should always do the things you want to do. Don’t let etiquette and others’ opinions hold you back, Raylin.”

“Ray,” I mutter, my thoughts stumbling over one another. “Call me Ray.”

“Ray, then.” He pulls the pot closer to him and digs the spoon inside. He arches a brow at me. “Plate.”

Bossy. I lift my plate, and he places another lasagna piece on it. He flashes me a quick grin. Bossy, and sexy.

It’s a killer combo—so hot I squirm on my seat, throbbing between my legs. It shouldn’t excite me. But it does, like everything about him. The whole package makes me burn—the bad boy look, the gruff, polite manners, the mystery about him, the blue eyes.

I’m a sucker for blue eyes, and that’s all there is to it.

Right.

Trying to bring my mind back on track, I realize he still hasn’t taken a bite. Weird. Didn’t say it was his favorite dish?

He tilts his head to the side. “So you said you’re housesitting for the Bells?”

Shit. Here we go.

“Yes.” My last mouthful is stuck in my throat, so I grab my glass and gulp some wine to wash it down. “Just for a few days.”

He pours himself some more wine. “You’re not from around here.”

Not a question this time. I poke halfheartedly at my food, appetite gone. “Neither are you.”

He glances up, those pretty blue eyes widening for a second. Again he recovers quickly, a smirk pulling at his lips. It’s as if he’s used to bad surprises in his life, and I wonder why that makes my heart ache for him.

Life sucks. It’s a well-known fact.

“I’m from Baltimore,” he says at last, twisting the stem of his wine glass between long fingers. “And you?”

Might as well tell him. Telling him about myself isn’t the issue. The issue is being here, with him. Possibly putting him in danger.

“Detroit area. Ann Arbor.”

“Ann Arbor.” He chews on the inside of his cheek. “And what are you doing, all the way down south?”

“I could ask the same of you.”

He takes a sip from his wine. “The owners… were people I knew.”

“Were?”

He winces. “Are.”

I stop poking at my cooling lasagna and drink some more wine. It’s fruity and fresh, gliding easily down my throat. “Family friends, then.”

“Something like that.”

He keeps saying that. Whatever it means. “Who are the owners?”