Man, he must really be sex-starved.
“I better get changed,” I say when I realise nothing short of a shower and change of clothes would fix my appearance. I walk down the hall to my room, a smile on my face at the idea that Keats was maybe checking me out. I quickly step in the shower, slather as much of my fruity body wash on, and fit myself into a fuchsia, vee-neck knit dress with three-quarter sleeves and a hemline that is just above my knees. I take the tie off my hair and let the strands play on my shoulders, imagining myself rocking my do like Venus in the Half-Shell—all I need are the angels hovering nearby.
Keats is just finishing up cleaning my table and floor with paper towels when I reach my kitchen. Shirtless, his lightly muscled back is beautiful to watch.
He lifts his gaze to me as I near. “You look nice.” He appears stunned like he doesn’t expect to find me attractive. “You know, if you don’t like my cooking, there’s no need to start a food fight,” he quips as he stands up.
“You call that a food fight?” I grab a sprinkle of grated carrots, and slowly advance towards him.
“Jess, don’t—”
I let the pieces fly. At least one bit of carrot lands in his mouth, another in his fashionably cropped hair.
“I’m not biting—”
The rain of lettuce interrupts his protest.
Keats narrows his eyes at me as if gauging how serious I am—I’ve picked up the small bowl of salsa. We’re still for a few moments like gunslingers from an old cowboy movie. The breeze through my open window sends a dust mote tumbling along the floor between us. Once it has past, I take the final step towards him with my weapon of choice. Keats blocks me by grabbing my wrist and we wrestle with the salsa, laughing as the container of sauce precariously comes close to spilling over one of us and then the other.
“Don’t start what you can’t finish, Hay-gen,” Keats says through gritted teeth as the tomato mixture hovers ever so close to spilling over my hair.
In a last ditch effort, I reach up and dip my free hand into the mixture. I scoop out a dollop and slap it against his firm chest with a squelch. Keats immediately frees my hand when he looks down at the hand-shaped stain half-covering his sexy tattoo. While he’s distracted, I give his cheek two small pats with my saucy hand, saying, “Very true, Keats,” then jump out of the way before he can retaliate.
“I hope you enjoyed that, Hay-gen,” he says, blue eyes intense, the salsa on his cheek making him look like Braveheart’s red cousin, “because you’re dead.”
He grabs the bowl of meat sauce in one hand, scooping out a glob with his other hand. “Shit, that’s hot,” he says, returning the filling into the bowl, shaking and blowing on his fingers. He stops mid-blow when he sees me laughing, instead lunging at me with an outstretched hand.
I squeal, running to the other side of the square table, but Keats just follows me until I’m cornered against the kitchen wall. I look down, grab some vegetables and throw them at him. His eyes narrow but don’t leave me as he approaches with unhurried, purposeful steps like a big cat stalking his prey.
“Truce,” I try to plead.
He shakes his head, his grin wide but not showing his sexy teeth.
His meat-sauce-covered hand comes closer. I close my eyes with a grimace, arms up at chest level in front of me as buffers. The heat of his body reaches me as he stops just inches away—his firm, bare chest against my fingers. His breathing calms beneath my touch, his heart thudding in contrast. My own heart beats in my ears in the calm before the expected storm. It feels like minutes pass before I garner the courage to open my eyes a crack.
“You’re trouble,” Keats says, voice coarse. His eyes flick down to my lips, and memories of our last kiss flood me. A hand cups my jaw as he presses his body against me. I stop breathing…until his face breaks out into a wide grin as he wipes said hand all the way down my neck, stopping just short of the neckline of my dress. He rubs his torso against mine for good measure, sparking pleasant little fires throughout my body, and making it difficult to care that he’s smudged salsa all over my outfit. “Red looks good on you, Hay-gen.”
He’s smiling so broadly, he’s in danger of biting his fingers as he sucks the sauce off them.
I give him a half-hearted death stare—more to maim than kill. “You bastard. Now I need to get changed again.”
When I return, he greets me with, “Honestly, the things you do to avoid eating your vegies.” He points at his suit slacks. There’s a dollop of salsa on them that I wouldn’t have noticed, considering my eyes were stuck to his still-bare torso. “Can I use your bathroom?”
“Sure.” I’m breathless as I squeeze that word out. “Towels are under the sink.”
I grab the dustpan and brush to sweep the salad off the floor. Unfurling about half a roll of paper towel, I wipe the sauce off the surfaces in my kitchen. There are even splotches on the wall that need cleaning, all the way to where the ceiling meets it. I climb a chair to reach the stain, going on tiptoes to get to the spots over the table.
“Careful.”
The unexpected warning behind me has the opposite effect. Startled, I sway on my feet, splaying my hands against the smooth wall and finding no purchase. I
