Becca

Sunday

Let’s play Never Have I Ever. I’ll start. Never have I ever had a guy play hard to get.

If that’s what Dax is doing.

I thought men wanted sex 24-7. And I’m pretty sure what I have going on works for him—in the bedroom, anyway.

Yet here I am, with a book in my lap while Dax carefully crafts a handmade fishing lure over an open tackle box. Watching those big fingers tie tiny knots and fasten feathers to the hook is weirdly erotic. It reminds me of how he unlatched the delicate straps of my sandals. He has nimble fingers for a wide, muscly guy.

The flat-screen TV hanging above the fireplace is on and tuned to the Weather Channel. Same outlook as yesterday. Flooding. Storms. More rain. Tad texted me again to let me know that most of the roads leading in and out of town are okay. It’s our mountain that has issues.

My phone tweets—my text ringtone—and I lift the screen and read yet another text from Tad: I forwarded the main office number to my cell. I’ll handle any calls and maintenance. Don’t worry about work.

Sure, you may see it as a day off, but I know what this is about—and Tad isn’t giving me time off out of the goodness of his heart. I heave an audible sigh and plunk my phone down, staring blindly at my book.

“Bad news?” Dax asks, not looking up from his work.

“Tad thinks I’m an imbecile,” I huff. “Like I can’t handle phone calls or maintenance or running this place in his absence? He’s doing everything remotely for me!”

I slap the book closed. Frustration set to simmer, I cross my arms and address Dax.

“You asked how old I was earlier.”

This earns me a chin raise. He pegs me with pale eyes.

“And you’ve addressed me as ‘Princess.’ Does that mean you also believe I’m immature and imbecilic?”

His mouth pulls at the corners, his brow wrinkling. He snaps into the expression so seamlessly, I have the impression he’s more of a frowner than a smiler. He sets the lure aside, elbows resting on his knees.

“Listen closely, Princess. You have an issue with your brother and I get that, but don’t take it out on me. And don’t accuse me of things that aren’t true.”

That’s fair.

“Why ‘Princess,’ then?” I ask with fifty percent less venom.

Dax doesn’t have to pause to think of his answer.

“It’s the way you move. There’s an elegance to you. You hold yourself with confidence. Like a princess. A duchess.” He tosses a hand. “Royalty shit.”

I blink, flattered despite the fact that he just said the words “royalty” and “shit” together.

“You a dancer?” His eyes are assessing.

I’m stunned speechless for a few seconds. “I was.”

“Thought so.” He nods, reaches for his lure, and resumes tying feathers on it once again.

“How’d you know that?”

“Didn’t know,” he says. “Like I said, it’s the way you move.”

Observant for a guy who slings drinks.

“Have you always been a bartender?” I ask.

“Never bartended. I own bars.”

“Bars plural?”

“Yep. Two.”

“And you’ve never tended bar.”

“Filled in, but no, not full time. I’m better at owning. Not that great with people.” He spares me a glance. He doesn’t strike me as “not that great with people,” but then again he had my pants off inside two hours of meeting him, so maybe I’m not the best person to ask.

He drops the lure into the tackle box and shuts the lid, sitting back on the couch in a sturdy slouch that doesn’t make him look any less powerful.

I’m not the relationship type, so hanging out with a guy is a new concept. Moments where the only sound in the room is another person breathing (while you study his profile and wonder which parent is responsible for that fantastic nose) are rare for me.

“I guess I’ll make us lunch.” I stand and start for the kitchen. “Do you have a preference?”

I stop short when Dax shoves his fingers into my back pocket and tugs me backward a few steps. His tug becomes more of a pull, but I recover my balance and end up sitting on one of his sturdy thighs. When I turn my head, I’m looking down at his upturned chin, narrowed eyes, and sensual smirk.

“Graceful,” he says.

“Always.”

“Maybe I should call you Grace.”

“Maybe you should.”

We smile at each other.

“I’m glad you’re here, Princess.”

“Even though you planned a fishing vacation all by yourself?”

“Even though.” He dips his head into a nod.

I believe him. Dax hasn’t minced a word with me yet. It doesn’t seem to be his style, which could mean I’m in way over my head.

—

Dax has yet to come up for air. I set a quesadilla in front of him a few minutes ago and I’m watching, eyes wide, as he gobbles the last of it, moaning, “Mmm,” as he chews. He’s not covered in food or anything. In fact, watching him eat is almost . . . erotic. Memories of the other night and him doing some fantastically fine dining cause a shudder to tap-dance down my spine.

“Want mine?” I tip my plate, which holds the other half of my own quesadilla. They were big. I’m too full to eat the other half.

He doesn’t ask if I’m sure, simply takes my plate and wolfs my food down as well.

“That,” he says around a final bite as I clear the dishes, “is what we need at McGreevy’s.”

“McWhat-ys?”

“One of my bars.” He crumples the paper napkin and drops it on the breakfast bar, propping himself on two thick forearms. “Redoing the menu. We have very limited offerings.”

I love the way he talks. Truncated sometimes, dropping the pronouns and then interspersing phrases like “limited offerings.”

“Can I buy the recipe from you?”

I eye him over my shoulder from the sink and let out a disbelieving chuckle.

“First off”—I shut off the water and dry my hands—“there is no official recipe. I threw it together. And second, of course you can’t buy it. I’ll give it to you, though.”

His face crinkles like I’ve seriously confused him. “Don’t give it to me.”

“Why not?”

“I paid good money to a local chef to provide me with menu options and none of them are as good as your quesadilla.”

“I threw it together,” I repeat. Then shrug, uncomfortable with the compliment. “It’s a hobby.”

“It’s an asset.” After a beat of silence, he asks, “Do you ever create recipes for the bar here?”

“No.” I can’t keep the gruffness out of my voice. “King Tad wouldn’t let me do something as significant as create a recipe to serve in his bar.”

“How do you know what ‘King Tad’ would say, Princess? Have you asked him?”

“No, but—” I make a choking sound and gesture like it should be obvious why not. “You saw him. He fired me.”

“You’re not a timid creature, Becca.”

I wind the dish towel in my hands and avert my gaze. “It’s just a hobby.”

Dax reaches an arm over the breakfast bar and offers his palm. I take one step, then another, placing my hand in his. Warm hands. Strong hands. He gives my fingers a gentle squeeze while I look at him. I like looking at him. The strong cheekbones, the contoured shape of his firm mouth. There’s the barest shadow of a dimple in the center of his chin—a shallow one virtually invisible beneath the scruff he hasn’t shaved yet.

“Write it down for me,” he says. “Unless you’re going to pitch it to your brother. I’ll compensate you. I promise.”

He lets go of my hand and I lower my elbows onto the countertop between us, leaning closer, towed in by his strong presence as much as his warmth.

“No compensation necessary.”

There are a few inches between our mouths, and for my kiss to successfully land on his lips, either I’ll have to hoist a leg onto the counter between us—which, let’s face it, seems desperate—or he’ll have to lift his fine ass off that seat and meet me halfway.

He does the latter. Pushing off his chair, he briefly touches my lips with his and then moves away. I watch him disappear in the direction of the bedroom and want to follow him so badly, I have to give my raging lady hormones a talking-to.

He returns a second later carrying a paddle and a feather duster. . . . Oh, wait. That’s a laptop. Well, a girl can dream.

Dax sets the sleek silver laptop on the counter where I’m leaning and slides it in my direction. “Are you Mac friendly?”

“Yes. I took graphic design classes before I went to dance school.”

His grin spreads slowly, and the southerly parts of me tingle.

“Of course you did.” He steals another kiss and pats my ass before moving to the living room and retaking his seat on the couch.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He doesn’t answer, so I open the laptop. I’m met with a password box. “It’s locked. Did you want to—”

“Eight-zero-eight-four-seven,” he says.

I type in the number and like that, I’m in. I watch the back of his head for a moment, wrestling with the idea that he rattled off his password to a virtual stranger.

He trusts me with his five-digit code.

I mean, it’s not access to a vault containing millions of dollars, but a password is significant, right? I only recently met Dax, and he’s handed me the keys to his virtual city. Meanwhile my brother doesn’t trust me to execute even the simplest of tasks.

Like my job.

I’m not the fastest keyboardist, but I peck out the recipe, trying to guesstimate the amounts of the ingredients. As I type, my mind reels back through each knife slice, ingredient, and spice I pulled out of the cabinet. I had access to a full kitchen at the main office, so I brought fresh cilantro, lime and avocado, and seasonings like cumin and smoked salt.

I sneaked a few extras onto the order last week when I was craving some really great Mexican food. There’s only so much barbecue a girl can eat before she wants lighter fare.

At one point I stop what I’m doing and measure a teaspoon of cumin. Then a half teaspoon. I never measure, just sort of throw it in. After rifling through the drawers, I determine that there is no quarter teaspoon, and the tablespoon measure is missing too. I’m forced to guesstimate, but I’m pretty sure I have it.

I carry the laptop into the living room, rest it on the coffee table, and sit next to Dax on the sofa.

“Do you have a grill at McGreevy’s?” I scroll through the recipe to the numbered instructions. “Ideally you would have a grill and get those great char marks on the chicken. You could even use blackening season for a Cajun flair if you wanted to. . . . Oh! Cajun seasoning . . .”

When I notice his smile, my words taper off. He’s so good-looking that it hurts a little to look directly at him.

“What?” I ask.

“In between dancing, graphic design, and rental cabin management, did you also take cooking classes?”

I shake my head.

“Interesting.” He goes back to fiddling with the items in his tackle box.

“Did you ever take a fishing-lure-making class?” I shoot back.

He lets out a soft laugh. “If my dad’s instruction counts. He taught me.”

My heart squeezes. Dax’s face softens whenever he mentions his dad. He misses him.

“That counts,” I reply quietly.

Dax watches me, his eyes bluer in the lamplight. The room is dim, thanks to the constant cloud cover and never-ending rain.

“I’ll test the recipe again if you don’t mind eating more quesadillas. How’s that sound?”

He answers by leaning forward and capturing my lips in a warm, slow, drugging kiss. As my eyes sink shut, I’m hyperaware of him—of the tickle of his fingertips along my cheekbone before he sifts them into my hair. Of the firm heat of his tongue as it slides along mine. I lean forward to claim more of his incredible mouth.

When he breaks away, I whisper, “This feels a lot like wooing.”

“I thought this was you coming to me.” His voice sounds as dazed as mine.

“Agree to disagree?” I ask with a grin.

He delivers another electric kiss, his hands going to the hem of my shirt and tugging it upward. I hoist my arms over my head to help him, because seriously, am I going to resist a chance at more sex with Dax?

No.

No, I am not.

His kisses sear my neck as he sweeps my bra from my arms. I lean into him as his palms cup my breasts. I reach for the waist of his jeans, fingers fumbling for the stud.

Our breathing grows erratic, our kisses more frantic.

“Condom?” I suggest.

“Tackle box,” he answers.

I pull my chin back to focus on his face. His lids are lowered, his smile more of a smirk.

“Boy Scout.”

“I’m not that good, Princess.” He slides a hand into the back of my jeans and grips my ass, giving it a hard squeeze. “Take these off and don’t be slow about it. Then climb onto my lap. I’ll do the rest of the work.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I like the ‘sir,’” he says as I stand from the couch and strip off my jeans. He works his own jeans down his legs. “Keep the ‘sir’ part.”

“Poor Dax.” I offer a pout as I roll my thong to my ankles. His eyes lock onto my naked body, so I jut one hip to give him a better view. “Don’t you get any respect at home?”

Something feral leaks into his expression and instead of teasing me back, he tugs me by the hips and kisses my belly button before lifting my leg by the ankle. “How high up can you lift this leg?”

In answer, I balance on my left foot, hold the inside of my right foot and lift it until it’s vertical, my toes pointing at the ceiling. Dax inventories the impressive pose before gripping my bottom, tugging me forward, and burying his face between my thighs.

With a gasp, I drop my leg over his shoulder, my hands on his head. His hair’s too short to grip there, so I brace myself on his shoulders. He’s relentless in his endeavor, laving me gently but thoroughly while I fight to keep my other leg under me. I have incredible balance, but I’m not sure my superb stability can stand the test of a Dax-delivered orgasm.

His fingers dance along the seam of my ass and squeeze the flesh there possessively as he sucks my clit.

That’s what ultimately sends me over. I rock my hips toward his face, my fingers clutching his hair, his bare shoulder, wherever I can gain purchase. As my left knee weakens and my body buzzes, I’m suddenly in the air—in Dax’s arms.

He rests my back on the sofa, rolls on a condom, and lowers his big body over mine. I part my thighs to make room for him. Without warning, he slips home.

Filled and surrounded by Dax Vaughn again, a scary thought occurs.

I could get used to this.