Page 89 of Truck Me
He runs his fingers through this perfectly combed hair, messing it up, and looks over his shoulder as if there’s a disaster waiting.
“Garret?” I say his name as a question. “Is everything okay?”
He rests his hand around his neck. The tension in his body is palpable. His eyes fall closed, and he lets out a deep sigh. “No. I’m trying to cook for you. It’s not going well.”
“Oh.” My smile slowly returns. I’d expected him to get takeout, but knowing he’s cooking makes this evening so much better. “That’s so sweet. Can I help?”
His eyes snap open and meet mine. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him look so vulnerable before. “But you always cook for me. I wanted to do it this time.”
Now that I know something truly bad hasn’t happened, I take in his appearance. Not only is he trying to cook for me, but he’s also dressed up. Well, Garret’s version of dressed up. He’s still wearing jeans, but they’re stain and hole free. They look new, as does his dark blue button-down shirt.
He’s trimmed his beard, so it’s closer to his face and until he mussed up his hair, it was perfectly combed.
I step forward, resting my hand on his chest, and press a kiss to his cheek. “You look really nice.”
“Thank you.” His response is rough and gravelly. Then his eyes peruse down my body and get snagged on the pie in my hands. “What’s that?”
“A chocolate cream pie,” I say in a sickly-sweet voice as I walk past him and put it in his refrigerator. “It’s my favorite, so I hope you like it too.”
“You made it. Of course I’ll like it.”
When I turn back to face him, a frown covers his face again. “Now what’s wrong?”
“Did you walk here in those?” He points at my feet.
I look down at my high-heeled boots and smile. They’re not practical for walking through the woods or across gravel driveways, but I don’t care. I love them.
Calling them boots is a stretch, especially in this small town, but they’re Jimmy Choos. They’re meant to be worn, not stuffed in a box in a closet. They have three-inch heels and are covered in gold glitter. They come up just high enough over my ankle that they hide the hem of my jeans.
I lift a foot out in front of me and wiggle it. “I did. Aren’t these cute?”
His brow furrows. “I don’t think cute is the right word. How did you walk here in those?”
I chuckle. “Very carefully and on my tiptoes. Now, about dinner.”
I push past him and hang my coat on the hook by the door. It’s been warmer ever since the last snowstorm. Two days after it dropped several inches on us, the temperatures rose to the fifties. All the snow has melted, and hints of spring are finally visible. The evenings still get cold, but with any luck, warm weather and sunshine are right around the corner.
I turn back to his kitchen and place my hands on my hips. Every available inch of counter space, which isn’t much, is covered. Dishes and supplies are piled up two to three layers high. I think I see a slow cooker underneath the plates, but I can’t be sure. It’s such a disorganized mess, I can’t tell what he’s attempting to make. But whatever it is, it smells great.
I glance over my shoulder at where he’s still nervously waiting by the door. “Whatcha making?”
“Spicy shredded beef tacos. The guy on the TV made it look easy. It’s not easy.” He grumbles and looks past me to the mess in his kitchen. He suddenly looks ten years younger and like a wounded boy instead of the sexy, grumpy man I’ve grown to like.
“Well, it smells delicious. I can’t wait to try it.” I turn back to the kitchen and survey the mess. Now that I know what we’re eating, I can better assess how to help him get it on the table.
But before I step forward, his arms wrap around my waist, and he hugs me close to his body. My back presses tight against his chest. He drops a soft kiss on the exposed skin on my shoulder. Then peppers light kisses along the curve of my neck that has my body shaking with need.
“You look beautiful. Even if those damn shoes are all wrong for this town. I still love how they look on you.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, barely able to get the words out.
“And this sweater. You’re driving me crazy with how it hangs off your shoulder. Are you even wearing a bra?” Rather than waiting for me to answer, his hands drift up my stomach until he’s cupping my breasts. “Fuck, Princess. You’re not.”
I smile at his reaction.
I’m wearing a light blue off the shoulder sweater that’s sexier than it is warm. I could’ve worn a strapless bra, and if we had plans to leave his house, I would have. But since we’re staying in, I didn’t see the point. He’s going to take it off me later anyway.
He kneads my breasts and licks my earlobe, making it hard to breathe. “Garret, you better stop.”