Love on the Lake (Lakeside 2)

Van pats the chair between himself and Aaron. “Come on, Teag, have a seat.”

“Oh, I wasn’t planning to stay.” I awkwardly adjust my purse strap. I want to grab my salad and run, and I definitely don’t want to sit beside Aaron, who has gone back to ignoring my existence now that I’m no longer holding the bag of Boones’s fritters.

“You have somewhere else to be?” Van pushes the chair out. “Sit down. Eat with us.”

I give in because I don’t want to be rude. Even after I take a seat, no one makes a move to dig into their sandwiches, and everyone is staring at Dillion.

I glance around the table, trying to figure out what exactly is going on. Dillion opens the Boones’s bag and removes the box. The table shakes, and I realize that Aaron’s leg is bouncing on the floor. Actually, I think there’s more than one foot bouncing.

“There’s a baker’s dozen in here and six people at the table. Everyone gets two, and we’ll draw numbers for the last extra, but Van and Aaron are out because they both tried to sneak one before the rest of us came out here,” Dillion announces.

“What? That’s not fair! I offered to help carry the bags in, not steal the freaking fritters!” Aaron slaps the table with one of his huge hands.

Dillion gives him a look that would make most people wilt like too-hot flowers. “Like hell. How long have I known you, Aaron? You probably tried to smolder-smirk the bag out of Teagan’s hand.”

He blows out a breath. “It’s not even worth the fight. You’re not going to believe me anyway.”

I raise my hand. I don’t know why, other than the fact that I’m sitting at a table with four men who are salivating like a pack of starved wolves over the box Dillion is holding, and I’m in awe of the way Dillion seems to have control over them. I want to know how to do that.

Van nudges me with his elbow. “You don’t need to raise your hand, Teag.”

“I won’t have a fritter, so you can split mine in half so everyone gets two and a half, and then there’s just the one full one, so one person will get an extra half.” I clasp my hands on the table and grin, pleased with my solution and the fact that everyone gets more than they originally thought they would.

The table goes silent, and four sets of eyes land on me, mouths agape.

“You’re not giving up your fritters. You’re going to eat them,” Dillion says. It sounds a lot like an order.

I purse my lips to keep from frowning. “But I don’t want a fritter.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this.” Aaron turns and props his arm on the back of his chair. His gray eyes meet mine, and his tongue sweeps out to wet his bottom lip. It’s full, and it looks soft. Softer than his hands. Soft like a satin pillow and warm like fresh laundry. “You want them, Teagan.”

“I don’t—”

He gives his head a shake and lifts one finger, touching it to my lip. The contact is brief, but if I had any hair on my arms—I don’t because I wax them—it would be standing on end.

“Trust me when I tell you this, Teagan: you absolutely want them. Never, ever forfeit a Boones’s fritter.”

I nod once, feeling a lot like I’m under some spell. “Okay. I want you. Them. The fritters. I want them.” The words are barely a whisper, and I feel my face explode with color at the slip.

Aaron drops his finger, and that infernal lopsided grin appears again. “Yeah, you do.”

I swallow down my embarrassment and fight the urge to stare at the table. I try not to make direct eye contact with anyone, but I can feel my brother’s eyes on me, so I furtively glance his way. Except he’s not looking at me; he’s giving Aaron the raised eyebrow.

I have so many burning questions.

Like, what’s Aaron’s deal? And why has he chosen now to be flirty? I’d think it was because he wanted to humiliate or embarrass me, but it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to do that in front of everyone. Maybe it was a slip.

“I want the fritters,” I tell Dillion.

She’s smirking like she’s in on some secret. “Yeah, you definitely don’t want to pass these up.”

Aaron leans his chair back, balancing on two legs, and pulls the tray free from the printer. He grabs a piece of paper and folds it. He tears it into pieces and slides all but one across the table to me. I take one and pass the rest on. He writes down a number on his paper and passes it to Van, while the rest of us write numbers between one and a hundred on our slips of paper. He and Van sit with their arms crossed, looking dejected about the whole thing.