Willow ended up taking over the production, since she also chopped up the eggs and whipped together the mixture. She didn’t even remember to consult the recipe, but it was second nature to go through the motions.
“You look very domestic,” Ethan told her, smiling a little as he leaned against the counter, doing absolutely nothing helpful.
“I look cuter in an apron,” she said lightly. Then she appraised the amount of pasta and the one bowl he had given her and glanced back at him. “I need two bowls. This isn’t going to fit in one unless you have a much bigger bowl.”
“I do not,” he stated, pushing off the edge of the counter and going over to the cupboard he kept the bowls in.
Once she transferred all the macaroni salad, she gave them another thorough stirring, then shook off the remains of the mixture into the bowls.
“All done. Need help making anything else? Now I’m in the mood to cook.”
He smiled at her and shook his head. “I appreciate the offer, but I have everything else covered.”
Playfully narrowing her gaze, she asked, “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Failing to appear innocent, his smile stretched a little wider. “I was just picturing you in an apron.”
“Am I wearing anything else?” she teased.
“A smile?”
Willow grinned, shaking her head, but not responding.
“I’m kidding,” he said.
“You are not kidding, don’t even lie to me, Ethan Wilde.”
Ethan shrugged, not looking terribly apologetic. “I can’t unsee you naked, Willow.”
Just thinking about him seeing her naked unleashed a swarm of butterflies in her belly. Her instinct was to flirt back, but she knew flirting with Ethan wouldn’t be as innocent as casually flirting with someone else, so she needed to be more mindful.
Even as she thought that, the words rolled right off her tongue. “Do you picture me naked often, Ethan?”
Some of the mirth drained from his face at her flirty comeback and he advanced a step closer—unnecessary, since they were already standing fairly close to each other.
His hand shot out, gently tracing the line of her jaw. Willow’s eyes fluttered shut, but she resisted the almost overwhelming urge to lean into his touch.
“I can’t kiss you,” she whispered as she felt him lean closer, eyes still closed.
“I know,” he answered quietly, huskily, his hand making its way down her neck. Dragging his fingers lightly across her collar bone, he said, “Doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”
Me too. She didn’t say it, since being near him was enough temptation without piling on.
Forcing her eyes open was probably a bad idea, since his feather-light caress melted her bones, and she was sure her eyes reflected her own faithless desires. She took the softening in his own expression when he met hers as verification.
His hands made their way back up her neck, across her jaw. By the time he was tracing her lips with his thumb, it took real effort not to rip his clothes off. The other hand had been floating, but it landed on her hip and moved down, inching closer and closer to her ass.
“And you call me the temptress,” she said lightly.
He smiled slightly, leaning closer until his hip was pressed firmly against hers, her hands moving of their own accord to his shoulders—God, she loved his shoulders. Her neck was next, stretching at the memory of his lips making a path, raising gooseflesh and setting her blood on fire. Just thinking about it warmed her all over, and when he leaned in, not kissing her, just nuzzling her neck as if to remind her, she heard a moan escape her throat.
“Ethan…”
“Tell me to stop and I will,” he whispered, triggering a yearning between her legs that she’d been trying to ignore.
“We can’t do this.”
“We aren’t doing anything,” he replied instantly.