I Hate, I Bake, and I Don’t Date! by Alina Jacobs

35

Tess

Damn! I had seen Beck shirtless, and I’d seen him in a wet swimsuit, but something about seeing my boss in his dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms, was doing something else to me.

It was also making me wish I had taken him up on his offer last night.

I bet it would have been good.

“You okay?” Beck asked, confused. He opened a kitchen drawer and closed it. “Why is this kitchen so big?”

Damn, I bet he’s big.

When he was touching me last night, I had really, really wanted to give in. But Beck had walked in on me eating my late-night delivery, and that was not a good look. Plus, I hadn’t mowed the lawn, so to speak.

Maybe he thought you weren’t interested.

He certainly was behaving as if he had lost interest. There hadn’t been any flirting the day after, just aloof professionalism.

Had Beck really lost interest that quickly?

Guess you’re not as special as you thought.

It’s for the best, I decided, then my brain melted again when he pulled an apron out of a cabinet and tied it on.

Crap! He was so sexy!

The scene combined my two favorite things: cooking and hot guys.

There was another quizzical look from Beck.

Unfortunately, there was no flirting smile and definitely no lust. Believe me, I looked. That morning before work, I had even cleaned everything up just in case he did decide he couldn’t contain himself.

But I was the one losing control. After eating the rest of my Chinese, I had lain in bed awake last night, listening for him to come walking down the hall, half wishing he would come into my room and finish what he had started. I desperately needed to feel his hands on me.

Now here we were in the kitchen, me watching him elegantly forming hamburger patties.

“You should um…”

He raised an eyebrow.

I swallowed. “Stuff those with onions and cheese.” I pointed. “Really turns it up a notch.”

“Like stuff it inside?” he asked.

“No,” I said, washing my hands then taking the hamburger patty from him. Our fingers barely grazed, but his touch sent a jolt down to my hoo-ha. Then my brain helpfully decided to add the soundtrack of Beck saying he wanted to put his tongue in my pussy.

We are having a wholesome family cookout, I scolded myself. Keep it together.

I grabbed some of the onions I had been chopping and selected a few cubes of cheese then mixed them together into the patty.

“Ta-da!” I said. “You bite into that, and it’s juicy and hot and has a little surprise.”

“Sounds like what I wanted to eat last night,” he said, voice lowering like ten freaking octaves.

Oof. So he did remember and was apparently still interested.

Feeling hot and bothered, I busied myself in the kitchen while Beck made the rest of the hamburgers, some plain, some with cheese.

I laid out platters for people to build their own burgers. I neatly fanned out American cheese, which was far superior because it melted nicely, along with pepper jack and cheddar slices for the heathens. I shredded lettuce and sliced tomatoes as the pile of burgers next to Beck grew ever taller.

And longer! And thicker!

Beck looked over at the platter I had assembled.

What? Who, me? I’m not thinking about your cock, no sirree!

“I have a jar of pickles in the fridge.”

“Is that what that was?” I asked with a frown. “I thought it was Enola’s science experiment.”

“They’re homemade, fermented pickles,” Beck retorted, taking the jar filled with large cucumbers floating in brine out of the fridge.

“Pickles are gross,” I said flatly.

“Have you even had a homemade pickle?”

“I don’t like pickles. They are squeaky and taste like plastic. I’d rather eat salt-and-vinegar potato chips.”

“Have you ever had my pickles?” he asked.

I went red.

Get your mind out of the gutter.

“I’m sure it’s tasty,” I said with a sniff, “but not for me.”

“Why don’t you put it in your mouth and find out?”

Lord. I could probably grill the hamburgers with the sexual heat that man was putting out.

He picked out one of the pickles, sliced it, and held it out to me.

“Open your mouth,” he ordered.

I shivered, thinking about him saying that when it was his cock in front of me.

He slipped the slice in my mouth. My tongue slid over his fingers, and his index finger grazed my lip slightly as he removed his hand from my mouth.

“And?” he said.

“It’s not that bad,” I said begrudgingly.

Beck’s mouth quirked. “Exactly what every man wants to hear a woman say about his pickle.”