The Buy-In (Graham Brothers #1)(51)

“We aren’t just any normal people. Not to each other.”

The easy grin slides off Pat’s face, replaced by something gut-clenchingly sincere.

Oh no! Bring back the flirt—I can handle that guy! The tender, vulnerable version of Pat … not so much.

He reaches for me, and I tuck my hands under my thighs for safekeeping. His hand drops to the table, palm up, like he’s keeping the offer open, just in case I change my mind.

I shift uncomfortably. “Why did you ask me to dinner? What’s your agenda? And don’t say you want to catch up for old times’ sake.”

“I wasn’t going to say that. Though I do want to catch up.” He bites his lip, studies my face, and sighs.

“Just spit it out. You’re killing me with the suspense.”

“I couldn’t help but hear what Wolf said earlier.” His lip curls a little at Wolf’s name. “If what he’s said is true, I want to help.”

I shudder at his use of the h-word. Val may be right that I have an aversion to asking for and taking help. It takes me an extra beat to realize what Pat is saying. In a far less romantic way than Wolf did—which is saying something—I think Pat is offering to marry me.

Which can’t be what he’s saying.

Thankfully the waiter brings over our plates at that moment. “Very hot,” he says, sliding a skillet of fajitas and all the fixings in front of me. I ordered fajitas because it requires assembly. Distraction for the win! And I definitely need it.

“No,” I say, unrolling my silverware from the napkin.

“But I haven’t even told you—”

“Still no.”

Pat shifts in his seat, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, those nice forearms fully on display. His forearms are like an appetizer, a tease compared to the main course of his biceps and shoulders and pecs and abs and—

My skillet pops loudly, making me jump. Grease spatters right on the forearm I was just ogling. Pat hisses, jerking back. Before I can stop them, my hands are moving. I dunk my cloth napkin in ice water, holding Pat’s arm in place while I press the cool napkin to the tiny red burns on his skin. Carefully, I draw us away from the danger zone of my sizzling skillet.

But now we’re in a totally different danger zone, with another kind of heat sizzling between us. Our eyes lock, and awareness makes my skin feel heavy and tight. The years we’ve lost and the weight of my complicated feelings do nothing to stifle the electricity between us. Pat’s thumb grazes the inside of my wrist, and I’m in danger of combusting on the spot, taking the whole restaurant with me in a blaze of glory.

And that just won’t do.

I pull my hands away and hold out the napkin. “Here. Put this on the burns.”

Pat shakes his head. “I’m all right. It’s nothing.”

“Good.”

I focus on my food and take way more time than necessary to assemble a single fajita. This is the most carefully crafted fajita in the history of fajitas. Culinary schools could use it as an example for students. It still breaks apart in the middle when I take a bite. Juice runs down my arm, and before I think about it, I drag my tongue over the drip before it can reach my elbow.

When I look up, Pat is watching, open-mouthed, his espresso eyes turning to a darker roast right in front of me. “You missed a bit,” he says, shifting toward me.

Oh, no. I’ve seen this before in the movies. It starts with You’ve got a little something right here, and the guy goes to wipe whipped cream or some other sexy food (it’s ALWAYS sexy food) from the corner of the heroine’s mouth. Then, BAM! It’s one of those kissing scenes with the swelling music and the heavy breathing.

I grab a napkin, practically scrubbing all my exposed skin from any hint of food. Those CSI guys and their little kit would find nothing on me.

Well. Nothing but napkin fibers.

“I’ve got it. See? Totally clean now. Like a newborn baby.” I make a face. “Actually, newborns aren’t very clean. They also don’t sleep more than two to three hours at a time, so that whole sleeping like a baby thing is some kind of conspiracy theory.”

Pat tilts his head, looking amused. “Did you think I was going to … lick your arm clean?”

Maybe. But it sounds ridiculous now that he’s said it out loud. Also, Pat shouldn’t be allowed to say the word lick ever again. It’s way too visceral, too sensual.

“I was just going to offer you my napkin,” he says. “The way you offered yours to me.”

“I don’t want to be your napkin buddy. I’ve got enough of those already.”

Pat just stares, blinking in confusion, because what even is a napkin buddy? And what does it mean if I have a lot of them? Fantastic. Now I’m the napkin hussy of Sheet Cake.

Pat coughs, and I think he’s hiding laughter behind his hand, because his shoulders are shaking. Whatever. Laugh away. See if I share napkins with you again.

I decide to save myself more embarrassing messes and eat my fajita from a plate with a fork, which is just wrong. But it will require no tongues and no napkins and no use of the word lick.

Of course, just as I think this, I drop a caramelized onion in my lap.

“About what I said,” Pat starts.

“We can pretend you didn’t say anything,” I tell him, stabbing a piece of beef with my fork. Perhaps a little more violently than necessary.