The Hookup (Moonlight and Motor Oil #1)(23)

He gave me an amused look and headed to the fridge. “You want a beer?”

“I don’t drink beer. But there’s an open bottle of white in there. If you could pour me some of that. Wineglasses are over there.” I jerked my head to the opposite wall.

“Gotcha,” he muttered.

“This won’t take long, and then we’ll sit out on the back porch and munch while the enchiladas finish up.”

“You gonna make me eat vegetables?” he asked.

I smiled at him. “You’re a big boy, not sure I can make you do anything, but I am making a big salad. If you don’t want any of it, I won’t be offended.”

“We’ll test it and see if my body will accept something healthy fed to it.”

I laughed softly, decided against chiding him because I knew intimately that somehow he took care of that body or it wouldn’t be the body it was, and went back to my guac.

I was squirting the lime juice in in preparation for mixing when Johnny remarked from behind me, “Sweet kitchen.”

I looked over my shoulder at him to see him leaning in a hand on my island, a beer bottle in his other hand, his attention to me.

“Luckily it mostly came this way. I put the farm sink in, got a deal on the marble countertops because some lady ordered them and then decided she didn’t want them. Other than that, I just painted, put some new handles on and voilà.”

“It’s sweet. It’s cute. It’s you. But I feel my balls shrinking just standing here.”

My body jolted and I burst out laughing, doing it looking at the cream painted cupboards, the green glass handles and knobs, knowing below the sink was a fabric curtain of roses and leaves against a cream background. There was a narrow flowery print over the window that was above the sink. There were shelves around the sink with the green milk glass pieces I’d inherited from Mom (who inherited them from her mom) with others I’d been picking up for years, intermingled with pink. Even my KitchenAid mixer was mint green. All the rest was cream or elaborate wire. And definitely every inch of it was feminine.

“I’ll be done in a second and we’ll get you out of the danger zone and on the back porch.”

“Babe, your back porch looks more comfortable than my living room. There are more pillows on that loveseat out there than on my bed. You even got a lamp out there.”

“I like to be comfy,” I told the guacamole.

“I’d hazard a guess you succeeded in fulfilling this desire.”

I again laughed softly then moved to the cupboard to pull down my chips and salsa bowl.

“You can go on out,” I told him. “I’ll dish this up and pour out the chips, and I’ll be out in two seconds.”

“Got your wine,” he replied.

“Thanks,” I said.

I dealt with the dip and chips then, to mess with him, I searched for the pink paper napkins I’d found at an antique shop that had a frilly corner, like a doily. I’d been saving them up for a special occasion, a party or something, but decided now was the perfect time to use them.

I located them and took a bunch out with the bowl.

Johnny was in my loveseat, both dogs roaming around the screened-in porch, deciding where to settle as I settled myself beside him, throwing down the napkins and placing the white chip and salsa bowl on the table in front of us.

“Jesus,” he muttered, eyes to the napkins.

I giggled.

Dempsey came up and stared hopefully at the chips.

“No, baby,” I murmured.

He gave me an adorable look then Swirl came up and stared hopefully at the chips.

“No to you too, handsome,” I told him.

He gave a whine then rounded the table to slide with a groan to his belly by my feet.

Dempsey picked Johnny, partly because with Swirl where he was there was no more room on my side. But mostly because Swirl was older, he’d learned a long time ago my no categorically meant no. Johnny was an unknown entity, and he might be a pushover with the chips.

“They get treats later, not chips now,” I told Johnny.

“Right,” Johnny replied, leaning forward to load a chip with guac and doing it looking at Dempsey, muttering, “Sorry, buddy.”

Dempsey looked sad.

Johnny sat back and I leaned forward to do the same thing he did.

It was then he touched me for the first time that night.

He did this by putting a warm hand on the small of my back, the heat of it melting into my flesh, traveling up my spine and down over my bottom.

“Christ, Iz, this is the best guac I’ve ever had,” he stated.

I was glad.

I was also glad for the reminder of who we were with his touch at my back.

I hadn’t thought about it, but he hadn’t given me a kiss when we met on my steps. He hadn’t touched me or even came close to me. He also hadn’t gotten close in my kitchen. Even as small as it was, he stood removed at the island. Indeed, there were no touches, pecks on the cheek, brushes of lips on my neck.

There was no intimate or even familiar affection at all.

We were going to have food now. Sex later.

He might not even spend the night.

That was where we were. Who we were. What was happening here.

And Johnny getting the horses in and teasing me in my kitchen didn’t change any of that.