Despite the sexual tension in the kitchen, I’m surprised when the rest of the afternoon is rather less exciting. It’s also strangely disappointing because even though I know I should be staying far away from Jackson, I can’t help but enjoy our little games.
So, after he went back to the office to make calls and I went back to my ragu, it was nearly three before I realized Jackson hadn’t eaten any lunch.
With nothing else to do, I make up a couple of sandwiches with cold cuts, mustard, mayo, and pickles as well as a few jalapenos because… well. Spicy.
When I took it in for him, he didn’t hide his surprise at me bringing him a sandwich, a soda, and some chips. He didn’t grab me and kiss me, which I was fully expecting. After quietly thanking me, he went back to his phone call, and I left, closing the door behind me.
I spend the rest of the afternoon taking advantage of the super plush couch and the wide screen TV in the lounge by vegging out in-between cooking.
It’s just like any other Sunday for me except I don’t have my pack around me, and I’m not in my cottage on my own. Jackson on the other hand, spends it on the phone with contractors in the office. Considering it’s a Sunday, that’s serious dedication on his part.
It’s seven by the time Jackson emerges from the office, his eyes tired, and I can’t help but feel a touch guilty because all I’ve done is watch Netflix.
“You ready to eat?” I pause my show when he stops in the lounge doorway.
For a second, he stands there, gazing down at me as I lay sprawled on my belly kicking my feet in the air. I’ve showered and changed into a pair of shorts, tank top, and fluffy socks and left my damp hair down to dry.
“You look like a little girl,” he says, a smile teasing his lips at my casual sprawl.
I snort and get up. “No, I don’t. And after our conversation in the kitchen, I’d say that’s a wildly inappropriate comment on your part.”
Jackson raises his eyebrow. “Our conversation? And what conversation might that be? Please remind me, I think I may have forgotten.”
“Yeah, right. Come on, let’s eat.” As I lead the way to the kitchen, Jackson trails me.
“I liked the sandwiches,” Jackson says, and I try not to preen. “You can make them for me tomorrow.”
I stop preening and turn to glare at him. “I can, can I?”
He gazes back at me with wide, innocent eyes. “Yes, you can.”
Shaking my head since I should’ve expected that from an alpha, I point at a high stool on the other side of the kitchen island. “Sit. We can have the salad while I put the pasta on to boil.”
Jackson sits. “And if I don’t like salad?”
I pull the bowl of salad from the refrigerator I made earlier with pieces of chargrilled chicken, bacon, parmesan, and a lemon and garlic vinaigrette. “I didn’t ask you if you liked it.”
Although I can feel Jackson’s amusement, he doesn’t push the issue, which I guess means he doesn’t have a problem with salads at all.
Once I’ve dished up our plates and placed them on the island, I turn to add the pasta to the water I set to boil. “You can start. I’ll only be a moment.”
“I’ll wait.”
Looks like Jackson knows how to be a gentleman.
After I have the pasta boiling in a large pot beside the simmering ragu, I join Jackson on a neighboring stool at the island.
“It looks good. Is that chicken and bacon?”
I nod as we dig in. “I don’t know a shifter that will eat a salad that didn’t have at least some meat in it. How’s the dressing? Too garlicky?”
I went crazy with the garlic in the hopes it’ll mean Jackson will keep his distance.
“It’s good. I love garlic.” Jackson doesn’t hide his amusement, which means he must’ve worked out my gameplan.
Damn it.
“Oh, that’s… lucky.”
“Yes, it is.”
I concentrate on my plate instead of responding to his amused admission. Not that I’d even know what to say.
Before long, we’ve cleaned our plates and I rise to check on the pasta, finding it’s finished cooking. “How big of a serving do you want?” I call out as I pull out the plates I’ve been keeping warm in the oven.
“You keep plates in the oven?”
I peer over my shoulder. “Yeah, it keeps the food warmer for longer and it’s better for something like pasta, which gets cold fast.”
He stares at me without saying a word.
“So, you want a big serving, or start small and come back for seconds?”
“If it’s as good as the salad, and it smells like it might be, go with big. I’ll probably still want seconds.”
Nodding, I turn and start dishing up the pasta and the sauce. “No problem. Since I don’t know how to make a small portion of anything, there’s plenty of it. Most days I’ll help cook with Talis in the pack house that when I get back to my cottage and have to cook for myself, I still end up making super-sized portions of everything. You want garlic toast?”
“You made garlic toast?”
I turn at the strange note in Jackson’s voice. “Yeah, of course, I did. You can’t have pasta and sauce without something to mop up your plate. You want?”
I can’t understand why the offer of garlic toast has him staring at me with an intensity that soon makes me uncomfortable. “Uh, Jackson?”
He gives one sharp nod, and I spin back around and load up both our plates. I dish up a serving platter with garlic toast that I kept warming in the oven and bring it all over.
Finally, I grab some bottles of water for us as well because if I break out the wine, this really will be a date.
For several seconds, Jackson stares down at his large serving.
Just as I’m about to sit, I suddenly remember the cheese and head for the refrigerator. “Oh, nearly forgot. I don’t know how because what is ragu without parmesan? Jackson, you want it shaved or grated?”
He lifts his head and his golden-eyed stare pins me to the spot.
“What?” I stand there clutching the large triangle of cheese. “Did you not like parmesan, because I hate to tell you, but there was more than a bit of it in the salad so-”
I stop talking because Jackson is on his feet and is stalking toward me.
I just stand there, holding the parmesan in front of me like a weapon that would only work on vegans or someone with a deadly allergy to dairy products. “What? What is it? Are you lactose intolerant? Should I call-”
I stop talking again, this time, not because Jackson is stalking toward me, but because I don’t have any air in my lungs to breathe. Not because I’m choking, but because Jackson is pinning me to the side of the fridge and kissing me with a desperation that has me ready to drop the cheese and grab onto him.
But before I can figure out what to do with the cheese, Jackson breaks the kiss and, without a word, walks away and drops back in his chair. I stand there, still clutching the parmesan as I try to work out what the hell just happened.
When the refrigerator beeps because I left it open, I jerk in surprise and move to close it.
“Shaved.”
I jump again at Jackson’s gruff word. “What?”
He lifts his gaze from his plate. “I’d like the cheese shaved, please.”
“Right.” I nod because that’s something to do, and it’s better than standing there trying to pull my wits together, so I grab the cheese slicer and I return to the kitchen island where I shave cheese over Jackson’s and then my plate.
After, I sit, and we dig into our meals in silence.
It’s perfectly ordinary, except after Jackson’s first bite, I feel his gaze on the side of my face. But when I turn to face him, I find he’s digging into the meal with gusto.
Three huge servings later, and I guess the kiss was Jackson’s way of saying thanks for cooking. I don’t dare tell him about the chocolate-cherry cheesecake I made earlier, because who knows where that will lead?
So, after dinner, Jackson helps me clean up and pack up the leftovers before we head back to the lounge so he can watch TV and I can pass out.
It’s a carb thing.
I don’t know why, but put a bowl of pasta in front of me, and it always puts me in a food coma. That doesn’t stop me from eating it, since I love it far too much for me to ever stop. Still, it’s probably a good thing we shifters have super-efficient metabolisms and are blessed with lean athletic builds.
Except for Jackson, that is. He’s a wall of solid muscle.
Although I’m blaming the pasta for my passing out, I’m not so blind to the fact that Jackson forcing me to snuggle on the couch didn’t have at least some effect.
And by force, I mean he tucked me close to his side and reclined, all the while his fingers stroked up and down my arm. I made a single attempt to get free, but after Jackson threatened to kiss me if I didn’t stop wriggling, I didn’t try again, to his obvious amusement.
The last laugh was on him because I doubt that he got any pleasure from snuggling up to a girl who passes out after she’s eaten carbs and probably drooled all over him.