She and the Chihuahua were eyeing the bag when Tag arrived with a paper sack of breakfast burritos. He waved it in front of her, making her mouth water. He definitely had eggs and cilantro in there.
“You don’t want to eat that.”
“Not particularly,” she said agreeably, now that people food was on the horizon. Before he could launch into twenty questions, she swiped the bag from him and dove in. Twenty bucks apparently went a long way on Discovery Island, or Tag had kicked in more. The bag yielded four tinfoil-wrapped, positively enormous burritos, along with a dozen little containers of green salsa and something suspiciously like refried beans. Pass.
“Is the Army coming over for breakfast, too?”
He shrugged. “You sounded hungry.”
True. She hadn’t realized he’d noticed.
“Someone’s going to swing by later with some clothes for you to borrow,” he continued.
“I can buy my own clothes.” She didn’t need a Tag-sponsored Pretty Woman moment. Plus, since she’d never seen the man in anything but T-shirts, she had her doubts about his abilities to moonlight as a stylist.
Another droll look from Tag. “Sure. If you want your wardrobe to consist of velvet sweatpants with rhinestones and flip-flops. Dani has better taste.”
Okay. So he had a point there, but she didn’t want to wear his girlfriend’s stuff. Oh, God. Did he have a girlfriend? She mentally ran through the cheater’s checklist she’d discovered in her latest issue of Cosmopolitan. He kept no girly stuff in the bathroom and she’d spotted no obvious signs of a female presence.
So screw it. She’d ask. “Who’s Dani?”
“My partner’s fiancée.” He grinned at her. “He rescued her from a tropical storm we had a few months ago and she stuck around. Her grandparents run Sweet Moon’s. Come on.”
Grabbing their food and a fistful of paper napkins, he headed into the living room. Since he didn’t own a dining room table, he tossed a few pillows onto the floor around a coffee table.
“Japanese style,” he announced. “When the landlord said the place was furnished, I didn’t ask enough questions.”
She picked a pillow, thinking he wouldn’t have cared if all his rent bought him was four walls, a door and a bed.
“I’ve booked a cabin at Sweet Moon’s, so I’ll be out of your hair soon. FedEx should deliver my new cards on Tuesday.”
“You don’t have to leave. My sofa is your sofa.”
She really, really did. It was a chivalrous offer, but they both knew where it would lead—right back to his big bed and the two of them going at it like sex-deprived maniacs. While she contemplated saying yes, please! to that particular fantasy, he leaned in and swiped her last salsa.
“Sweet Moon’s seems perfectly lovely.”
“I’m lovely.” He rolled on to his back, balling up the wrapper and tossing it to the trash. Naturally, he made it. “Three point shot.”
“Two. You had a straight shot at the basket, which is easier.”
“I’d like to see you do better.”
Of course he would. She’d always loved a challenge. Sitting up straighter, she took aim.
“Nuh-uh. From here.” He patted the floor beside him. “It’s only fair.”
She could play by his rule. As she lined up her shot, however, he slid behind her and wrapped his big arms around her waist.
“You’re not playing fair,” she observed.
He brushed his mouth over her throat. “I’m using my resources.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?” Because she could come up with other words—like seductive and sexy as hell.
Her jaw flexed. She wasn’t going to miss, no matter what he did. She’d dropped her Apache the equivalent of four stories once without interrupting the coordinates she was feeding back to the dispatcher. If she could do that, she could certainly handle one badly behaved rescue swimmer.
Except...he reeeeeally didn’t play fair. He slid a hand up into her hair, pulling her ponytail free. The man had a fascination with her hair she just didn’t get. His mouth, however, was busy doing things she really understood. Sexy, mouthwateringly good things.
Kisses.
Small kisses. Soft, sliding kisses that made her shiver in the best possible way as he covered the exposed curve of her neck with his mouth. Kisses that made concentrating seem a whole lot less fun than turning around and returning a few kisses of her own.