She started unwrapping all the slices, but was distracted by a thin stream of gray smoke coming from the center of the pristine pan. Panicking, she did the only thing that came to mind. She lobbed half a stick of softened butter from the dish on the counter directly into the center of the pan. The solid sizzled as it oozed out, forming a yellowy liquid. Butter made everything better.

Before she could congratulate herself on her quick thinking, an ominous hiss alerted her to the water now boiling over. Noodles cascaded over the sides and settling among the flames beneath the metal grates, instantly charring and filling the kitchen with smoke. She turned down the heat and flailed her hands around until it cleared some, nearly slumping in relief as the last of it burned away.

Okay, she was doing fine. She spared a glance at the butter that had started crackling and was quickly turning a sickly shade of tobacco spit on the adjacent burner. She tossed the cheese into the pool of fat, hoping to slow the cooking long enough to salvage what she’d made so far. The cheese bubbled up, frying and spreading out in neon orange swirls. Not creamy and delicious-looking. More like a pair of pleather pants Lady Gaga would don before a big show. Not very appetizing.

“Crap.”

She opened the fridge again. Milk. Milk or cream would fix it. The closest thing she could find was almond milk, so she closed her eyes and poured it in with the rest of the mixture. Bombs away.

She straightened her mess and checked on the water again. It was all gone. In its place was a congealed pound of macaroni, swollen to its full, boiled potential. Not too shabby. She overturned the pot into the cheese mixture, taking up a spatula to first break up the block of pasta, and then to stir it so that the burnt pieces that had stuck to the bottom of the pan didn’t show.

Once it was complete, she stood back and eyed her masterpiece, a warm sense of accomplishment filling her. It didn’t look delicious, per se, but it didn’t look terrible either. Although, she still felt like it was missing something…

With a resigned sigh, she shrugged and spooned the meal into bowls. In a last flourish, she sprinkled some parsley on top and smiled. Much better. By the time she’d set the table, complete with wineglasses and cloth napkins, her hands were shaking. Partly with excitement to show off her first actual home-cooked meal, partly with anticipation of what she hoped would come later. It made her stomach twist, but in the best way. In a way she hadn’t known existed until now with Gavin. She needed this. She wanted this.

And she was going to get it.

“Gavin!” she called down the stairwell. “Come on up, dinner’s ready.”

…

The air was thick with acrid smoke. The taste of burning coated the back of his throat and clung to the inside of his nostrils, and it was all he could do to force back the choking sensation every breath elicited. By the time he reached the top of the stairs from the basement, his eyes were stinging with unshed tears, but still he moved closer to the source. What a sap.

“Sarabeth?” he called as he walked down the hall, crossing the living room with quick, long strides.

“I made us dinner.”

She spun around so quickly that her br**sts continued to jiggle when she stopped. She was dressed to kill, the dark purple of her tight cotton shirt making her light-green eyes all the more alluring. And he tried hard to focus on those eyes, because the real draw of the whole business was just how obviously she lacked a bra. The front of her shirt had been splashed with something that formed a large, dark spot across her front, and he could see the points of her stiff ni**les poking at the thin fabric. A pull of need tugged at him, no matter how hard he tried to push it away. Was this some sort of test? If so, he was definitely going to fail.

“How…nice,” he said, glancing at the table. There were two places set, each with a glowing mound of something gooey, with little black flecks clinging to it here and there like gnats on a decomposing, radioactive orange. “It looks delicious.”

He squared his shoulders as he took his seat, but she didn’t seem to notice. She was beaming.

“I hope you like it. It’s an…uh, old family recipe.”

“I’d gotten the impression your family wasn’t much to do their own cooking.” He forked the center of the mound on his plate, and the utensil sank in and held like it was the sword in the stone. When he tried to pry it out, the entire glob came up with it.

“Oh, I can cook. If you know what I mean.” She blushed, looking up at him through her long lashes.

What the hell was happening? He stared down at the food and shook his head slowly. “No. I don’t think I do.”

He used his fork to cut off a hunk of what smelled faintly like cheese and took a tentative bite. If cardboard could have mated with plastic in the wild, it would have made the meal Sarabeth had prepared. With every chew, a new glob of what he imagined had once been pasta clung to his molars, and he reevaluated, wondering if the dish’s main ingredient had been industrial glue.

It was an effort, but he smiled and muscled through, no matter how sore his jaw got from masticating the putrid mess. It was worth it. At his approving face, her shoulders loosened, and he caught sight of those elusive dimples of hers. It had been days since they’d made an appearance, and he forked up some more “food.”

“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”

It was strange, after all. She’d been staying with him for a week, and he couldn’t remember her ever stepping foot in the kitchen aside from making them a pot of coffee or fixing a sandwich. To do it now, after the news she’d gotten, seemed odd. Maybe she just wanted to feel normal for a little while. He got that.

His thoughts drifted away as his gaze traveled lower again to take in her braless figure.

Jesus, she was fit.

“I thought you deserved something nice. You’ve been so lovely to me.”

Had he? He set his fork down and stared at her, waiting for the kicker. Finally, she followed suit, reaching across the table to caress the back of his hand, drawing figure eights in the sparse dark hair on his skin.

“I was thinking… Well, it’s down to the wire, right? You and me and this whole thing? Why don’t we give it a go?”

His c**k struggled against his pants with every motion of her finger, but he refused to believe that she’d meant what he thought. “Give what a go?” he managed through his suddenly tight throat.

“You. And me. I was reading in my books, you know, and it gave me some ideas.”

“Ideas?” He was starting to sound like a parrot, but he didn’t care. “Have you been drinking again?”

God, he hoped so. Then he could say no. He’d have to say no. But if she was sober and this was what she really wanted?

No amount of common sense in the world was going to be enough to make him turn her away.

Chapter Eleven

Lovely. She was acting so weird he thought she was drunk. Not to mention that her dinner was like a mouthful of hot garbage. She didn’t know whether he was being nice or if his taste buds were on the fritz because he ate it like it was actually decent. She stared at him, teetering on a precipice as his intense gaze burrowed into her.

She could take the chicken’s way out. Claim to be drunk and walk away now, no harm no foul. Or she could woman up and take what she wanted.

“Nope. Not drunk at all. I…” She wet her lips and pushed the words out. “Want you.”

In the blink of an eye, his face changed, as though a light switch had been flipped on, his expression growing so intense that she lost her breath. He crossed the table and pulled her from her seat, sending the backs of her thighs against the kitchen table. Her heart slammed against her ribs as he gripped her sides.

“This is what you want?” he breathed, stooping low so that he was eye to eye with her, his mouth nearly brushing the bridge of her nose as he spoke. She’d never imagined that it would’ve gone so easily, but here he was, playing out her late-night fantasies like they’d been his own.

And maybe they had been. But this was no time for deep thought. It was time to act, to make something happen before she lost her resolve.

“Yes.” She could hardly muster the words. Her body’s response was too commanding, too overpowering. It was a wonder that she’d managed to communicate as much as she already had, since her mind had been so entirely focused on what she wanted him to do to her. What she needed him to do.

An electric surge pulsed through her core, ramping up the heat inside her as his hard bulge pressed against her. His fingers seized her hips, massaging until thrills of sensual pleasure soared through her. He bent low, pressing his mouth to her neck, licking her throat, nibbling his way up to her ear, each kiss burning her. When his hot breath finally touched her lobe, it came with a hissed command. “Say it again. I need to hear it one more time, Doc.”

“I…” Her mouth was dry, and she swallowed hard before she could continue. “I want you. I want you now.” The raw need of her tone shocked even her, and a lethal grin spread across his face, so sensual it made her stomach ache.

Without another word, he yanked her shirt from over her head, and her ni**les pebbled at the momentary brush of contact. Her heart was pounding in her chest, blood thundering in her ears.

When she was free of her shirt, she took a step back and removed his. Seeing his body, she sucked in a sharp breath. She’d gotten a look at his chest before, but it was even more muscular than she’d remembered, every ab perfectly outlined and contoured, his pectorals the envy of every bodybuilder in America.

“What’s the date signify?” she asked, tracing the tattoo that had enchanted her lightly with her thumbnail.

“The year I joined the service. That’s when I turned my whole life around. Decided that maybe I could make something of myself.” The muscle in his jaw ticked as she sent her hand lower, skimming down his stomach.

She nodded. “And you sure did that. You’re a good man, Gavin.” And he was a whole new level of hot. Without thinking, she reached for the zipper of his pants.

She was going for the button when his grip caught her hard around the wrist and pulled her away.

“Not yet,” he said, his voice deep and husky. “You first.”

He yanked her pants down with almost no effort at all, and a cool rush of air gave momentary relief to the fire that had been building between her thighs. Momentary. In the next instant, however, the fire was stoked when his work-roughened fingertips roamed from her navel to her wet center. He slipped a single digit between her folds.

She bit hard on her bottom lip, her whole body convulsing at the singular touch, and he pulled away until both of his hands gripped her waist. He lifted her half onto the table, and the dishes from their meal clattered to the ground with splintering crash. Neither of them so much as blinked. Nothing mattered but Gavin.

All she could hear was his harsh breathing, the soft hum in the back of his throat as he surveyed her body, tweaking a nipple, palming her flesh. He was like a collector who had finally found the missing masterpiece for his collection. His eyes devoured her, savoring every minute detail.

“I love your birthmark.” He touched her thigh, tracing the heart-shaped brown imperfection on her skin. Without another word, he slid her farther back on the cool wood. “I’ve imagined putting my mouth there a hundred times.”

When she was fully perched, he spread her legs apart as wide as he could manage, but still he didn’t touch her sex again. Instead, his palms pressed to her quaking thighs while his lips trailed over her body, tracing a line from her knees, up her thighs, past her hips, around the swell of her breasts. It was torturous work, sensual and hypnotic, sending waves of need through her with each touch.

He stared at her for one long instant before stooping low and catching one of her ni**les between his teeth. She squeezed her thighs together, trying to contain the pressure his mouth was creating, but it was no use. Every second she was growing more restless for his touch in the one place she’d been dreaming of every night for a week.