Neanderthal by Avery Flynn

Chapter Thirty-Five

Griff

Griff had just pulled the pork shoulder off the smoker on his balcony and was letting it rest on the kitchen island while he wrapped ears of corn in aluminum foil when the doorbell rang.

Fuck.

He wasn’t ready. He hadn’t started the barbecue sauce or the boxed cornbread mix yet. This was what he got for answering a call from his dad. The old man had been at least two doubles into the good bourbon and worked up about how Griff hadn’t pushed his cousins enough to take Beckett Cosmetics from luxury boutique brand—billions of dollars of revenue or not—to the top of the food chain.

“A son of mine shouldn’t be working in the B league. This is what happens when you give up so easily, when you’re lazy,” his dad had said, slurring only the slightest bit. “If you had half my brainpower, you’d see that. You’d understand all the places where you’re going wrong, but you’re just too thick to see it.”

Griff had nearly hung up the phone a million times during the ten-minute diatribe. But every time his thumb had gotten close to the end call button, Griff couldn’t do it. It was his father, the only parent he had left, as the old man let him know every time he called. If losing his mom early had taught him anything, it was that family—even the fucked-up nuclear one he had—meant something. He was strong enough to put up with the bullshit. He could take it and then he could take some more. Plus, it distracted the old man from calling Morgan and pulling this shit on her. That, Griff wouldn’t let happen.

So he’d taken his dad’s call, and it had thrown him off his game.

Now here he was, standing in his open front door staring at the sex-goddess version of Kinsey in a white strappy sundress that ended a mile above her knees. It left everything and nothing to the imagination. God help him. Meanwhile, he was in a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and a black apron Dixon had gotten him that said Every Butt Deserves A Good Rub.

You are such a dick, Beckett.

“You look amazing,” he said as he stepped back so she could walk in.

And did he take a good look at the view behind as well when she strode into the hall? Without a fucking doubt. He may not be a genius like his dad, but he sure as hell wasn’t a complete dumb-ass, either.

“This old thing?” She whirled around, the turn making the skirt of her dress flutter upward.

The move gave a peek at her plushy thighs that he’d slipped his hand between on the elevator yesterday. His cock twitched in response to the memory, having Kinsey back at his place, and just that fact that she was in this world.

“Aren’t you sweet,” she went on, her accent a bit thicker than usual as she cocked her head to one side. “Nash said it was a romantic dinner for two with you making your specialty.”

“I make pulled pork sandwiches.” Wow. Way to really romance her. Do you even understand the assignment here? It’s not to be a complete caveman. Do you even have an inner Nash or Dixon to charm her?

The short answer? No, he did not, never had, and never would.

Instead of being put off by the dinner announcement, though, her eyes lit up. “What kind of sauce?”

“I make my own. The latest is a mix of Memphis and Kansas City flavors with a dash of Carolina vinegar.”

“Oh my.” She raised herself up on her tiptoes and brushed a kiss along his jawline. “I might just marry you if you keep talking like that.”

Okay, she was joking. He knew that. His brain was still zooming into mental wedding-planning Excel spreadsheets, building on everything he’d put in there since she’d shown up at his gym and wrecked him for anyone else. He was still trying to swerve from deciding between a church wedding or a ceremony out at Gable House with the lake in the background when she gave him a real kiss. This one wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hesitant. It was the kind that teased, promised, and tormented all at the same time.

He went from shocked receiver to giving as good as he got in a heartbeat, letting his fingers get tangled in her long hair as he angled her face upward. All of him focused in on her. The way she opened beneath him, not surrendering so much as daring him. And when she broke the kiss and took a step back, her eyes hazy with lust and a self-satisfied grin on her face, he nearly growled his frustration.

That’s when it clicked. This wasn’t just the kind of hello-good-to-see-you-again-can-we-get-naked-soon kiss, as much as he hated to admit it. This was straight-up revenge for the elevator.

The knock-him-on-his-ass kiss.

The extra Southern in her accent.

The view of her in that dress as she walked down the hall to the kitchen, the sway of the material across her round ass leaving absolutely no question about the fact that Miss Sweet Little Ol’ Me wasn’t wearing panties.

Griff shoved his hands through his hair, willed his dick to calm the fuck down, and chuckled as he shook his head. The woman was forever a few steps ahead of everyone else, and he was here for it.

It only took two steps to catch up with her. The look she gave him told him she knew he knew and that it didn’t matter because she was going to make him pay for it. That was okay. He was here for that, too. He was here for whatever Kinsey wanted.

They made it a few steps into the kitchen when she pulled to a stop.

She let out a short gasp and turned to face him. “You make your own sauce, spend hours smoking the pork, and you have a box cornbread mix?”

The can of green beans and box of corn bread sat on the butcher-block island in the middle of his kitchen along with the tray holding the most gorgeous pork shoulder that he’d been smoking since early this morning. Okay, so maybe he was paying a little too much attention to the main course.

“Sides aren’t really my thing,” he said.

“Thank God I’m here.” She grabbed the dishtowel hanging from the door of his oven and tied it around her waist. “Tell me you have a cast-iron skillet.”

Griff opened up the cupboard underneath the stovetop and pulled out his seasoned cast-iron skillet that Grandma Betty had given him when he’d first started cooking.

“Bacon?” she asked.

He took out a pack of thick-cut hickory-smoked goodness.

She tipped over the boxed muffin mix. “Cornmeal?”

Figuring out where she was going with this, he grabbed the cornmeal out of the pantry along with the baking soda and salt.

Kinsey clapped her hands together and did a happy shimmy with her hips. “If you have eggs, butter, and buttermilk, we are in business.”

“The butter and eggs I have,” he said. “Let me run to the corner market for the buttermilk.”

She reached out and stopped him with her hand on his forearm before he could start for the door. “You have regular milk and lemon juice?”

He nodded.

“We can make it work.” She went up on her tiptoes and gave him a quick kiss, then did a spin move accompanied by clapping again. “Oh, this is gonna be fun.”

She started moving around his kitchen like she owned the place, setting him to work measuring ingredients for a recipe she knew by memory while she fried up the bacon—the bits for the green beans and the drippings for the cornbread skillet. By the time the corn bread was done, his kitchen smelled like heaven, and Kinsey’s cheeks were flushed with pleasure, giving him all sorts of ideas that had absolutely nothing to do with dinner.