The countertops are black with tiny gold flecks. The floor is the same hardwood as the rest of the house. The appliances are black, and a plethora of various items—from a fake plant to a tequila bottle to an oversized Tonka truck—sit on top of the counters in a show of dramatic bachelorhood.
It’s a complete one-eighty from the curated kitchen I grew up in, but I don’t hate it. Not even a little bit.
Nate stops at the narrow island and plants his hands on the counter. “There are drinks and your basics in the fridge. Milk, eggs, cheese, sweet tea. Pudding cups.”
I smile at him.
“The pantry is behind me. Same thing. Help yourself.”
“Thanks.” I bite my lip to keep from smiling. “Just wondering—is pudding a staple?”
“Hell, yeah. It’s the easiest, most versatile dessert ever.” He cocks his head to the side but humors me anyway. “It’s the best. All you have to do is eat it.”
“Now you’re talking my language,” I quickly reply.
His cheeks flush. He gives me a warning glance but doesn’t indulge me.
“I also like to dip a banana in it,” he says, turning toward the pantry. “I—”
“Kinky.”
He spins around. When his eyes meet mine, they’re so dark, so brooding that I almost gasp.
“You, little girl, have no fucking idea.”
I do it. I gasp. I have no idea if he heard me or not because all I can hear are those words, that tone—the grit that rumbles from my ears and buries itself deep in my core. And I don’t care if he heard me or not because clearly, he was trying to elicit a response.
I’d almost give Nate Hughes anything he wanted.
He paces toward me. His bare feet smack against the hardwood. My breath gets shallower with every step.
He stops in front of me so close that his chest nearly touches mine. I peer up, lifting my chin so I can look into his eyes.
My mind races with what he’s going to say, or hopefully, what he might do.
“You like fucking with me, don’t you?” he asks.
His voice sweeps across the quiet kitchen. It mixes with the hazy lights hanging above us, and all I can think is that this would be the perfect setting for an illicit sexual encounter.
“I do,” I say, the words a smidge less confident than I’d like. “You want to know something?”
He hums.
“I think you like it when I fuck with you.” I bite my bottom lip. “Don’t you, Nate?”
His grin isn’t friendly or amused. It’s sinful.
He shifts his weight, widening his stance. It makes him appear bigger, wider, more imposing.
“Is that supposed to intimidate me?” I ask, lifting a brow. “Because it just makes me want to fuck with you more.”
His eyes narrow ever so slightly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t think? Because I think I know exactly what I’m talking about.”
The air between us heats. If air that wasn’t moving could push two people together, that would be happening now. The room seems to shrink as we stand, barely touching, and feel each other out.
I might’ve gotten myself in a little too far with this. Do I enjoy messing with him? Yes.
Do I think he likes it? Also, yes.
Would I love for him to actually act on the undeniable chemistry between us? Absolutely.
But am I a virgin playing ball on a court that might be a little too big for me?
Let’s hope not.
Nate’s shoulder twitches, and I flinch, thinking he’s going to reach for me—that he’s finally going to break an invisible seal between us. Instead, he runs a hand through his hair and turns away.
A rush of air leaves my lungs as I slump against the counter.
“You’re gonna need to behave,” he says gruffly.
What?
“You … perplex me,” I say.
I shove off the counter and regroup. I’ve never been particularly shy, and if I learned one thing from my brothers, it’s to fight for what I want. Otherwise, you always lose the battle.
I’m not reading Nate wrong. He wants me as badly as I want him, and that’s a huge turn-on. So here goes.
“I know you want me,” I say matter-of-factly.
He paces to the other side of the kitchen. He doesn’t stop until he’s the farthest away from me that he can get.
“A part of being an adult is knowing what you can’t have,” he says.
“Oh. Okay. I’m getting philosophical Nate tonight. That’s fun.”
He shakes his head. “Go to bed. I’m gonna lock the door and go to bed too.”
This conversation is over.
“Awesome,” I say. “But I don’t know where my room is.”
He points at the doorway. “Down the hall. First room on your right. I put new sheets on it earlier, and your bags are in there.”
Looks like I’ve been dismissed. “Thanks.”
He makes a face that possibly conveys a response but mostly tells me he’s as frustrated with the end of the conversation as I am. Then he turns toward the doorway.