The more they’d worked together, the more sexual their banter had become. It left him frustrated and, at times, annoyed.
Regardless of that, he liked seeing Violet every day. He especially liked stealing a kiss here and there—usually when he could catch her off guard.
Her protests were fewer and farther between. In fact, when he didn’t steal a kiss, she found a way to provoke him, as she did now.
She’d been nearly herself by Thursday, and today she looked even better—less tired, more refreshed. Recovered from her illness.
To be sure, he asked, “You’re feeling okay?”
“I feel terrific.”
“Not working yourself too hard?”
“No harder than necessary, definitely no harder than you.” She tipped her head. “What game are you playing now?”
“Game?”
Her look became accusing. “You going to give me that kiss or not?”
Hogan gave it quick thought and decided on a different tack. He held up his hands, now a little messy with seasonings, rub and sauce. “How about you kiss me instead? I believe in equal rights for women. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, or vice versa. If you want a kiss—”
“Are you challenging me?”
More like testing her, but he only cocked a brow and waited.
Giving it some thought, Violet gazed at his mouth until her own expression warmed, and Hogan knew she’d made up her mind.
Anticipation held him still.
Rising on tiptoe, she lightly touched his lips with a fingertip. He could feel her breath, his own suspended. She leaned forward, caught his bottom lip in her teeth and lightly tugged.
Interest keen, Hogan waited.
She soothed his lip with her hot little tongue and slowly, very slowly, fitted her mouth to his in a kiss that made him half-hard.
He held on to the counter behind him; not only were his hands messy, but if he touched her, he just knew he’d get carried away. They had relative privacy in his prep area, yet they weren’t alone, not in the restaurant with other employees around, customers coming and going.
For only a moment, her breasts pressed to his ribs and her hands held tightly to his shoulders. I want to do this again, Violet, with both of us naked and a bed nearby.
As she eased away she kissed his chin, his jaw and his throat.
In a soft, husky voice, she whispered, “How do you always smell so good?” She brushed her nose along his throat, his collarbone, rested her forehead against his chest for a heartbeat, and then with a sigh, she stepped away.
He was struggling to get his thoughts in order when she said, all brisk business, “I raised the prices on the items we discussed, and so far, no one has even noticed.”
Hogan stared at her. “Damn, you’re good.”
“At kissing? At conversation switches?”
So she’d done it on purpose? He growled. “At making me nuts.”
She gave an unrepentant grin. “I’ve learned from you. God knows you’ve done it to me enough times.”
“Is that so?” Sure, he’d stolen some kisses—and she’d enjoyed it.
Almost as much as he’d just enjoyed it. Damn.
Seeing that he understood, Violet laughed. “I like having you around, Hogan. I really do.” She patted his abs and sashayed away with her own sexy little swagger of triumph.
He had a lot to think about.
Luckily, an upside to grilling at a crowded restaurant was plenty of time to ruminate.
* * *
When Nathan pulled into his driveway at 7:00 p.m., grimy from head to toe and still seething, he paid no attention to his neighbors. He had a cloth wrapped around his bleeding hand and an attitude that could spit nails.
He didn’t notice Brooklin out front until he slammed his car door, and then heard her call out.
“Nathan? Oh my God, what happened?”
Curt, he said, “Nothing.” Which was stupid, given how blood dripped from the soaked cloth and down his forearm. The woman was elusive, but she wasn’t blind.
“Are you okay?”
Just freaking dandy. She never wanted to talk to him, so why now? “Fine,” he said, still terse, and kept walking.
It shocked the hell out of him when, before he could reach his front door, she joined him on his porch.
“You’re bleeding.”
Briefly, he closed his eyes, trying to get his temper under control. “An accident. Nothing major.”
“Let me see.”
“Shouldn’t you be running the other way?”
She pulled her head back, glared at him, then took the keys from his hand and, scowling as much as him, opened his door.
“Go to your kitchen,” she ordered, and now she was the one being abrupt. “Do you have a first-aid kit?”
He didn’t know what the hell to think, but having her in his house quickly took the heat from his rage. Wondering what she would do, he said, “Under my bathroom cabinet.”
“I’ll be right back.”
As if she invaded the homes of bachelors every day—bachelors she usually avoided—Brooklin went down his hall. Their houses were set up the same. Hell, most of the houses on the street were the same inside, with only subtle differences outside.
Wondering if he’d picked up his dirty clothes after his shower that morning, Nathan went to the kitchen sink and unwrapped his hand. The pad of his thumb on his left hand had already bruised around the two-inch slice. He threw away the cloth and ran water over his hand so he could see how deep it might be.
“Here, sit down.” Brooklin showed up with his first-aid kit and pulled a chair toward him. She looked at the blood and bruises, assessing the damage, then began cleaning it with an antiseptic. “How’d you do this?”
She held his large, tanned hand in her much smaller, much paler fingers while she worked. Nathan studied the top of her bowed head. “Stupid cat got stuck in a stupid old air conditioner, and I had to get it out.”
“And you stupidly cut yourself on a stupid, jagged piece of metal?”
Her take-charge, sassy attitude lightened his own. “Something like that.”
“The cat?”
“Back in the arms of the old lady who owns his mangy ass.”
“I trust he fared better than you?”
“Not a scratch.”
Once she’d cleaned it, Brooklin carefully prodded. “Since your kit has nylon butterfly bandages, I don’t think you’ll need stitches.”
“I already decided that.”
“I’m going to put some medicine on it, okay? Then the bandages, then I’ll wrap it.”
Nathan was busy noticing that for once she wasn’t in running clothes. She also wasn’t wearing a bra under her tan T-shirt. Heat ran up his spine until his collar felt too damn tight.
So did his pants.
“Sure,” he said. “Knock yourself out.”
Instead of activewear, tonight Brooklin wore loose, striped pajama pants. Her thick hair fell free