Bad Boy's Baby Part 51

I grunted and untangled myself from the pots and pans, but Zach already turned his attention, chiseling at the crispy flecks of meat in the skillet I needed.

He whistled a little tune.

Like nothing had happened. Like nothing pa.s.sed between us. Like nothing about me bending over even affected him.

And why would it? The man-wh.o.r.e probably humped everything from here to Was.h.i.+ngton D.C. while he was on leave-storing it up for the long winter of his deployment like a perverted little squirrel. Money and girls. All the same to him.

So why did I let him bother me?

I gritted my teeth and slammed my wok against the stove. He turned off the burner. His sausage was still pink but the ground meat was Cajun blackened. I grimaced as he stirred the paste-like gloop that became of his noodles. The fool couldn't even feed himself. He needed a personal chef more than a mansion.

Didn't his parents teach him anything about the kitchen? He didn't seem the home-maker type, and, from the bits I heard about Emily, his mother wasn't either. She was the perpetual cleansing dieter-the one who ate a piece of ginger after every five raspberries to catch the free radicals. Her wedding menu demanded free-ranged chicken, cage-free eggs, deep-ma.s.saged beef, and non-GMO, pesticide-free, herbicide-free, taste-free salads, so fresh you could see where the caterpillars had munched.

It must have been her idea. My father used to eat McDonalds cheeseburgers he accidentally dropped on the ground.

I washed a knife and readied my ingredients, but curiosity burned me. I knew nothing about Zach's family or his mother. I hadn't even asked.

But nope.

I wasn't getting involved. I didn't care what Zach did. My only concern was that he didn't imprint the taste of his insult to Italy into our best skillet.

I added water to my pot and opened the bag of white, stone-ground grits. My stomach rumbled in antic.i.p.ation, but it sunk when I opened the fridge. I wanted to keep our food separate, but getting the label maker was probably a little overkill. I s.h.i.+fted the containers, moved the drinks, and searched behind Tupperware'd leftovers. Then I uttered an uncouth word and groaned.

No b.u.t.ter.

Thank G.o.d Gran wasn't alive to witness this travesty. Only two sins existed in the world for her-taking the Lord's name in vain and subst.i.tuting anything for b.u.t.ter. Both margarine and profanity offended the baby Jesus.

I didn't need Zach to sneak up behind me, summoned by my groan and the frustrated shoving of his Gatorade from my shelf. He reached over my head, aiming for a can of fake cheese that would be the best part of his meal. His arm brushed mine.

My heart stopped.

No, it leapt into my throat, which was good because it prevented me from speaking to him. In the drawer with his parmesan-b.u.t.ter. Four glorious sticks.

The only thing more humiliating than arriving home to greet his booty-call was the temptation to break my vow of silence and ask to borrow some b.u.t.ter.

But the brush of his body devastated my defenses, destroyed my self-made promises, and betrayed me to the rush of s.h.i.+vers over every sensitive part of me.

He radiated a perfect heat. His scent promised a s.e.xy tease. And his low hum? That rumbling cadence of his murmured song sent me reeling.

He hovered. He loomed. He invaded my s.p.a.ce.

And all I wanted was one broken, foolish moment where our bodies would touch and I could sink into his impossible strength. My head buzzed with the hope of earning another caress from his award-worthy fingers.

Zach radiated trouble. He was the alcohol in a mixed drink of mistakes. The patient zero of a love-sick epidemic. The catalyst of a reaction that centered only on me.

It was wrong and idiotic. I knew he was as much a fiend as he was a liar.

Except, during that perfect night we spent together, he didn't seem like any of those things. He was just...Zach. Testosterone. s.e.x. Pa.s.sion.

He was a c.o.c.ky b.a.s.t.a.r.d who had no problem s.e.xing up his step-sister and stealing an inheritance from a will with ink that wasn't even dry. So why did I still had that tickling, foolish hope that he was different? I didn't want him to be a bad guy. I wanted to someday forgive him.

But I wasn't that naive.

Besides, a pot of hot, creamy, cheesy grits was the next best thing to s.e.x. I didn't need his hands on my body, lips on my neck, or weight crus.h.i.+ng me into the bed.

I just needed b.u.t.ter.

I didn't even have to ask.

Zach leaned over me, pressing his hips against mine as though he planned to take me then, there, and in danger of breaking the eggs. He reached, and the irresponsible vixen in me hoped it was to loop his arm around my waist and have his way with me on the floor.

Instead, he rooted through his supplies and handed me a stick of b.u.t.ter. How it didn't melt instantly in my hands was a modern day miracle.

I swallowed. He pulled away before I could thank him without actually speaking.

I was just lucky I hadn't sunk to my knees and showed him how grateful I felt.

Zach whistled as he stirred the charred mess of his pasta. He added a generic can of sauce over the chaos and tossed a lid on the horror. It simmered as I started the grits and cooked my shrimp in the rendered bacon fat, onion, garlic, and enough cayenne to put hair on your chest, as Gran used to tell Grandaddy. It only took about twenty minutes to come together-enough time for Zach to burn his first batch of garlic bread and douse our toaster with brunt garlic powder caked onto the slots.

We sat down at the same time-my shrimp and grits, steaming hot and delicious, and his gloop covered in half a can of parmesan cheese and patted on top of garlic bread.

He raised a fork to his lips. The clumping sauce oozed over an uncooked chunk of sausage.

Oh, Lord. My family prided ourselves on one thing. Southern hospitality. My own moral code included not sitting idly by while someone got food poisoning.

I smacked his hand and took his fork. Zach grunted, but I removed his plate and replaced it with a ladle of grits. I loaded it with shrimp and cheese. He grinned as I shoved it under his nose.

I sat down and tried to avoid his sea-green eyes.

And I immediately failed, but I didn't mind. His impish green teased over me.

G.o.d, he was handsome.

He sampled his dinner, his smirk evolving into a grin as he took a big spoonful and sucked the juices from the shrimp's tail. His dimples were genuine. A wonderful complement for a home-cooked meal.

We ate in silence, and Zach finished every bite on his plate. He didn't go for seconds, though I probably would have allowed it. He dumped his horrid spaghetti and moved his dishes to the dishwasher while I watched him with my best attempt at cool indifference.

He nodded to the container on the counter and winked.

"Dessert's on me."

Dessert?

I abandoned my dinner and peeked under the lid of the gold cake platter.

A perfectly baked, 100% authentic, pecan pie rested beneath, waiting to be cut.

Homemade.

By Zach.

I thudded the lid against the platter with a crash.

"You p.r.i.c.k!"

That son of a b.i.t.c.h played me.

Again!

He wasn't some inexperienced child wandering the kitchen and tossing whatever sounded Italian enough into the pot. He knew what he was doing. And worse, he knew how badly he was ruining it!

And I fell for his tricks again. Only this time I did something worse than sleep with him. I let him sample my secret family recipe. I shared my dinner like he was a sad, hungry puppy, wagging his tail under the table.

For three days, I had stewed in silence. In thirty minutes, he made me crack.

His laugh carried from the parlor.

That pecan pie was about to get shoved down his throat.

...Right after I tried a piece.

Chapter Ten - Zach.

Shay f.u.c.king tormented me with that piece of string she called a bikini.

She wore a tiny, pink tease that hid everything good, perfect, and holy in this G.o.dforsaken world. I remembered what it concealed, but that memory needed a refresher.

G.o.dd.a.m.n.

How was it legal for a woman that f.u.c.king beautiful to wear a bikini like that? Especially near a pool! Christ, everyone warned about not running near the water. How about no wet-dream inspired bikinis? A man didn't need a head injury to drown. One glance at her curves strategically hidden under the pink sc.r.a.p of material and he'd forget to breathe on land.

She did it to f.u.c.k with me.

And it worked.

I tried to exercise, but a hard-on didn't streamline me under the water. Just the opposite. One look at the most beautiful woman on the planet, and the blood pooled too low. I bobbed like a f.u.c.king buoy instead of diving deep.

Again, she didn't care. She flipped through her book, letting the sun warm her perfectly mocha, temptingly smooth, mouth-wateringly tasty body.

Christ. I needed to get these last laps done.

I was behind on my training, even with my recovery going well and my progress better than anyone expected. The pool was the only d.a.m.n reason I stayed at the mansion. After a couple weeks training in the water, I'd pa.s.s peak condition and return to superhuman, where I belonged. Just in time for the medical waiver's required physical.

But I couldn't do a G.o.dd.a.m.ned thing with Shay taunting me. She rolled onto her stomach in the sun-pus.h.i.+ng that perfect a.s.s into the air. She rested on the chaise, but I knew what she liked. She'd deny it, but I felt it. She wanted a kiss, spank, or aching thrust. I'd do it too, if I wasn't so sure she'd drown me first.

I kicked off the wall and splashed her.

She ignored me. Like she had been doing for days.

Christ, I hated that.

No one ever ignored me. My smile always earned a favorable response from the ladies, and a punch to the temple focused an insurgent on my demands right quick.

I didn't want Shay p.i.s.sed at me. I thought we made strides. She wasn't in my bed yet, but we had a breakthrough yesterday in the theater. She actually selected the movie I wanted to watch on Netflix.

Love was in the air.

Laps be d.a.m.ned. I could think of a much better form of exercise.

I swam up to the wall closest to her and crossed my arms over the warm cement.

"Shay."

She didn't bother turning. "I'm napping."

"Why don't you get in the water?"

"No."

"It's no fun sitting on the side."

"It's plenty fun."

I doubted that. A little bikini like that was begging to get wet.

Along with other parts of her.

"Just dive in. You can sunbathe on a raft."

"And you'll tip me in?" Now she did peek at me, her eyebrow raising as she considered the lengths I'd go to touch her caramel skin. She had no idea how low I'd sink. "I'll take my chances right here, thank you very much."

She returned to her book. Like the conversation was done because the little princess decided it was over.

Nope.

I hauled myself out of the pool, shaking my head to clear the sudden m.u.f.fle to my ears.

Waterlogged. Christ, I was out of practice.

I loomed over her chair-a ridiculously expensive, imported, island-style cus.h.i.+oned chaise. Completely impractical for pool-side shenanigans.

Shay was onto me. She kicked as I approached.