The Bookworm's Guide to Flirting (The Bookworm's Guide 3)

No, no. Don’t look at me like that. We all had our faults.

I snuggled down and stretched out my legs, putting them right across Dylan’s lap.

He looked at them, then ran his gaze up the length of my body while I pretended like I didn’t care. “Do you mind?”

“Hm?” I peered over the top of the book.

He motioned to my legs. “Your legs. Do you mind?”

“No, not at all. Do you?”

“I—” He stopped and shook his head. “I give up.”

I grinned. “You’re the best.”

“Mm. I think you’re lucky you found me.”

“Don’t get a big head now. You won’t fit it into a gym anymore.”

He slid me a look, but he didn’t say anything in response. Just smiled, shook his head, and turned his attention back to the TV.

All right then.

I was going to see if this witch picked the elf or the detective in this book or not.

CHAPTER TEN – SAYLOR

RULE TEN: YOGA PANTS ARE ALWAYS A GOOD IDEA. THEY’RE COMFORTABLE AND MAKE YOUR BUTT LOOK GREAT. WIN-WIN.

“No, you’re doing it wrong!” I shoved Dylan out of my way. “I don’t know why I agreed to let you cook with me. And how much pepper is on that chicken breast? Why are you melting the butter? I need butter, not caramelized garbage!”

Dylan held his hands up. “You said I could help!”

“This is not a help!” I wiggled my spatula at him. “This is a hindrance!”

“So was you using my lap as your own personal footstool.”

“So was your freakin’ sports in the background while I was trying to read my book!” I huffed and turned off the stove so I could take the saucepan to the sink and wash out the now caramelized butter.

“Can I at least spiralize the courgette?”

“Zucchini!” I said, looking over my shoulder. “It’s zucchini, Dylan!”

“If you say so.” His lips twitched into a small smile. “The machine is automatic.”

I stared at him for a moment. “I know you can cook. What’s wrong with you?”

“You’re wearing yoga pants.”

“Well observed.”

“And… that’s it. You’re wearing yoga pants.”

“I don’t get it.” I pulled the clean pan from the sink and put it back on top of the stove. “They’re just yoga pants.”

“Okay, let me put this in a way you can understand.” He flattened his hands on the island counter and leaned forward. It made his biceps pop in an annoyingly delicious way, and I had to shake off the thought before it went too far.

“Okay…”

“You know how you feel about me when I walk around in gray sweats and no shirt?”

“Like I want to gauge my own eyeballs out with a spork?” I asked innocently.

Of course I didn’t want to gauge my own eyeballs out.

Every time Dylan walked around in gray sweats and no shirt, I wanted to lick him all over.

Not that I’d ever said that little tidbit out loud. But he knew I didn’t like it. He just didn’t know why.

“There you go.” He flung one arm out. “Every time you walk about in yoga pants, it makes me want to gauge my own eyeballs out with a spork.”

It was so funny when he said spork. Spork. It was such a weird word but he said it so… posh.

Posher than I did, at least.

“I think I’m offended by that,” I said with a sniff, throwing a lump of butter into the saucepan. “Don’t touch that pan.”

“Yes, boss.” There was a pause. “Do I need to be offended about the fact you feel the same way as me?”

“Nah, you’re fine. You can just call Rosie and she’ll make you feel better.”

He tugged on my braid. “Don’t be a brat. How many times do I have to say she’s not my type?”

“Not your type? She’s everyone’s type. Long hair, pretty face, great tits.” I put the zucchini into the spiralizer and hit the button. The machine whirred to life, and in thirty seconds, I had a tub full of curly strings of zucchini. “Here. Put some—actually, never mind. You’ll use so much salt my heart will close up.”

“Anatomically, that doesn’t make any sense at all. You mean your veins.” Dylan passed me the salt grinder. “If Rosie’s that hot, why don’t you date her?”

“No. I reserve making out with women exclusively for when I’m blind drunk.”

“There’s a story there.”

“It’s not that interesting,” I replied, pressing the button on the electric grinder. Salt came out in tiny little slivers, and I did the same thing with the pepper mill.

“I beg to differ. It sounds extremely interesting.” He leaned against the counter and crossed his legs at the ankles.

Oh, my God.

“I made out with Tori one night in college when we were both blind drunk. It wasn’t hot, it wasn’t sexy, and I’m sticking to penis because women are too much drama.”

Dylan’s tongue flicked out and wetted his lower lip. “Are they now?”