The Sweetest Thing

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 fu

“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 fu

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.

His eyes were laughing at her, which she ignored because he was back to unloading her spices. “You can’t put the basil and cumin so close to the stove,” she said. “They’ll go bad.”

“They need to be in easy reach, and if this place sees anything close to the kind of business I think it will, the spices won’t last long enough to go bad.”

She stood up and moved close to reach out and stop him, accidentally brushing against his big body. That was so supremely a

He held his ground, refusing to budge.

“Everything goes bad,” she murmured, trying to reach the basil. She couldn’t have it next to the cumin-yuck.

“Not everything,” he said, and shifted to come up right behind her, crowding her.

Of their own accord, her eyes drifted closed and her body quivered. Because no matter how much time had passed, every part of her remembered every part of him. Gripping the countertop in front of her, she bowed her head and choked out his name as his long arms came around her.

But instead of touching her, he grabbed the basil for her without even stretching, the tall, gorgeous bastard, and set it down in front of her.

“The poppy seeds will start to smell disgusting if they’re not in the fridge,” she said.

Lowering his head, he sniffed at her neck.

“Not me,” she said with a low, helpless laugh. “The poppy seeds.”

“You’re right. Because you smell amazing. You always did.”

Oh, God. Her knees actually wobbled at that. “I smell like fried chicken.”

“Mh-mmm. Finger lickin’ good.”

Her fingers turned white on the counter. “Why did my sisters pick you to do this?”

“Because I offered to. Jax offered, too, but he’s kitchen-challenged, so they wouldn’t let him.”

“I didn’t ask for help.”

“No kidding.” He turned Tara to face him, his expression amused. “You’d choke on your own tongue before you asked for help. This was to be a surprise for you, Tara. A fully stocked kitchen, ready to go.”

That Maddie and Chloe had even wanted to do this for her touched Tara more than she could have imagined.

“Oh, and I brought you my crepe pan.” Ford gestured toward the island counter. “Maddie said you’d wanted to make crepes but that you didn’t have a good pan for it.”

She glanced at it, then let out a low breath. A Le Creuset. She pushed past him to run a reverent finger over the beautiful pan and nearly moaned. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

He let her drool over it for a moment before speaking again. “As for why it’s me specifically doing the stocking…” He shrugged. “I know what I’m doing.”