A slight flush stained Matt’s cheekbones. “You heard that?”
“I’m a teacher. I hear everything.”
Hooked, Tom Fletcher had said. The prospect left her oddly breathless.
Of course, their parents’ generation thought that way. Allison wasn’t trolling for some trophy husband to stuff and mount over her fireplace.
“My mother always claimed to have selective hearing,” Matt said. “That way she could pretend not to hear Luke and me when we bitched about doing chores.”
“Your mother is a wise woman.”
“She likes you. She doesn’t give her family recipes to just anybody.”
Allison’s heart gave a happy little hop. “Too bad I get my cooking skills from my mother.”
“It’s not that hard.”
She tilted her head. “You cook?”
He smiled his lazy smile. “I learned to, for Josh. I can manage more than peanut butter sandwiches and scrambled eggs, anyway.”
There was no one in Allison’s life to cook for. To care for. But she didn’t have to be defined by her family. Isn’t that what she’d come to Dare Island to prove?
“I guess if I can read, I can follow a recipe. I’m up for trying new things.”
“Good.” He stopped under the blooming crepe myrtle. Took her by the shoulders and drew her in. “Try this.”
He kissed her.
She was prepared for the familiar rush of blood, the blast of heat. But his mouth was warm and soft on hers, testing, tasting, tempting her with little bites. Not a demand this time. A question. Her body loosened, moistened, as his tongue coaxed hers to play. She sucked in her breath and kissed him back, yes, answering with her body and her mouth, yes, promising him everything she had, yes, please, yes. His arms tightened. She felt him, the hard, lovely planes and angles of him hard against her breast, belly, thighs. Matt.
“Matt . . .” She opened her eyes to a pink haze of crepe myrtle and lust, a sweet, melting ache inside her. “Where are we going with this?”
“I don’t know.” He kissed the corner of her lips. “Does it matter?”
from Carolina Home
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