“Oh, fuck, yeah.” Ford, speaking low and husky. “That’s the way, baby. Just like that.”
Boyd blinked at Tara. “Uh, that sounds a little like someone’s… you know.”
Yeah. She did know.
“That’s right, nice and deep,” came Ford’s voice. “Right up the center.”
Tara turned back to Boyd to tell him to wait and bumped right into him. “Stay,” she said firmly, and pushed open the door to face her sexy-as-hell intruder doing God-knew-what in her kitchen.
Chapter 6
“Never miss a good chance to shut up.”
TARA DANIELS
When Tara stepped into the kitchen, she found exactly what she’d expected. Ford: bartender, sailor, town cut-up, and overall bane of her existence.
What she didn’t expect was for him to be working.
He had his back to her and was gazing into the open cabinets, a canister of sugar in his hand as he considered where to place it.
“Ford,” she said with what she felt was remarkable calm.
No reaction. He kept doing his thing, which appeared to be stocking her shelves. She waited until he set the canister next to the salt and pepper. Good decision, she thought approvingly, but what the hell? “Okay, listen,” she said, hands on hips. “You’re in my place and-”
“Yes!” he yelled suddenly, startling her. “That’s the way, baby. Go-go-go, take it all the way!” He accompanied this with an innately male, testosterone-fueled fist pump, turning just enough that Tara could see a cocky grin cross his face.
Catching sight of her, he kept grinning as he pulled out an earphone. “Mariners,” he said. “Top of the ninth. Bases loaded. Sweet game.”
“Baseball.” Not sex on her countertops.
Ford arched a brow. “Yeah, baseball. What did you think?”
“Nothing. I don’t know.”
He flashed another grin, and this one was pure badass. It went well with the perfectly fitted and professionally distressed jeans sitting low on his hips and snug across his very nice ass. He wore battered cross trainers and a black T-shirt that managed to emphasize the strength and build of his wide shoulders and broad chest. And a certain naughty look in his eyes.
“Anyone ever tell you that your pretty, Southern belle accent thickens when you lie?” he asked.
“No. What in Sam Hill are you doing here, Ford?”
He smiled. “And also when you’re pissy.”
“I’m not pissy!”
His eyes cut to the doors behind her as they cracked open to reveal Boyd peeking his head in.
Tara gritted her teeth and introduced them. The two men shook hands while Boyd sized up the much taller Ford. “It’s the heels,” Boyd said.
Ford cocked his head. “Excuse me?”
“The reason I’m so short is that she’s in heels.”
“Of course,” Ford said after a full beat. “It’s the heels.” He looked at Tara, face bland.
She did her best not to squirm.
“Listen, Tina-” Boyd started. “We should really get going-”
“Tara,” she said.
“Tara.” He nodded. “Sorry. Anyway, we really need to get a move on if we’re going to make the early bird special.”
Right. Except she couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t. She wanted something fried, in her damn heels, with someone who knew her damn name. “I think it’s best if we make it for another night.” Like, say, never.
Boyd blinked, slow as an owl. “Is it because you have a headache? Because I have Advil in the car for when my dates get a headache.”
“Yes, it’s because of a headache,” Tara said, very carefully not looking at Ford. “A massive headache. But it needs more than Advil. I’m sorry, Boyd.”
He sighed. “It’s okay. I got further with you than any of my other dates lately. So that’s something, right?”
Ford raised a brow in Tara’s direction. She sent him a glare and walked Boyd out. When she came back into the kitchen, Ford was waiting for her, clearly amused.
“You used me to dump your date,” he said.
“ ‘Dumped’ is… harsh,” she said.
“And accurate.”
“And accurate,” she agreed and sighed. “He had bad breath.”
“Well then.”
He was laughing at her, the bastard. “This isn’t funny, Ford. I really needed a date.”
“That’s not what I would have guessed.”
“And what does that mean?”
“It means,” he said, pulling a frying pan and some oil out of her cabinets like he was right at home. “That I remember how you get when you’re uptight and anxious. I also remember the only thing that relaxed you.”
Tara had a flash to a certain long ago night on the docks, after a fight with her mother that had left her shaky and alone. Ford had found her, and in shockingly little time, had her forgetting her troubles.
Naked therapy, Ford style.
It’d worked. Tara felt heat flood her face. “Yes, well, sex isn’t on the table.”
He gestured to the pan. “I was talking about fried chicken, but your idea has merits, too. Come here, Tara.”
Said the spider to the fly. “I don’t think so.”
Ford smiled and pulled a package of chicken from the refrigerator. He located the seasonings and bread crumbs he wanted, heated the pan, and poured her a glass of wine.
Tara looked around, trying to put two and two together as to why the bane of her existence was trespassing on her territory. “I just don’t understand why you’re here.”
“I’m surprising you.” Ford poured another wine for himself, looking comfortable in his own skin as he got to work cooking for her, occasionally drinking from the glass in his big hand. He fried the chicken with the easy flicks of an experienced wrist, flashing her a look that did something funny to her stomach.
And south of her stomach.
She told herself to ignore the attraction that she didn’t want, but her hormones had their own agenda. Forcing herself to tear her eyes off him, she took in the kitchen, and how it felt to use it for the first time. It felt good, she realized. Really good. And there was something else. With Ford in it, the room seemed cozy, intimate.
And damn if he wasn’t taking up too much of it.
The air had begun to smell like heaven, and Tara could hear the sizzle and pop of the oil. Her mouth watered. “So about this surprising me thing.”
“Hush,” he said, and before she could hurt him for that, he nudged her wine glass to her lips. “Just stand there and give your brain a couple of minutes off. Five minutes, Tara. Better yet, sit.” He gently pushed her onto a barstool. “Take a deep breath.” He waited until she did. “Good,” he said. “Now let it out, slowly. Repeat a few times.”
She glared at him, but continued to breathe. Slow. In and out. She drank. Breathed some more. And damn if after five minutes she didn’t feel a whole hell of a lot better about the evening. “It’s the wine,” she said.
He refilled her glass and handed her a plate loaded with fried chicken. “It’s also the company.”
Tara laughed at his cockiness and took a bite of his chicken. And then moaned. “Lord almighty.”
He smiled. “Yeah?”
“Oh yeah. This is amazing.” She pointed at him. “Which you already know and which doesn’t get you off the hook. Okay, so one more time, slowly and precisely-why were you putting my spices away?”
“Because your sisters asked me to. They asked because you’re a control freak who’ll bitch the air blue if they get left on the counter.”
“I am not a-” She broke off and drew in a deep, relaxing breath. She was. She really was a complete and utter control freak. Another deep breath. Another sip of wine.